-NRLF 


HARPERS1 
:LiTTLE-f| 
NOVELS 


ST.    JOHN'S    WOOING 

a 


M.  G.  MCCLELLAND 

AUTHOR  OP 

'OBLIVION"  "PRINCESS"  "BUKKETT'S  LOOK" 
"WHITE  HEKON"  "BROADOAKS"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW     YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1895 


Copyright,  18M,  by  HARPIB  4  BROTHKM. 
AU  rigklt  rtttntd. 


3T    JOHNS 
WOOING 


ST.  JOHN'S   WOOING 


HE  was  an  Englishman,  but  not  at  all  arro 
gant,  and  he  had  been  in  the  country  twelve 
years,  drifting  about  from  point  to  point, 
always  hopeful,  always  unsuccessful,  always 
obedient  to  his  nomadic  instincts.  His  name 
was  Clere  St.  John.  He  had  tried  America, 
in  its  western  half,  from  Vancouver's  Island 
to  the  Staked  Plains,  and  could  make  noth 
ing  of  it.  His  business  associates  were  wont 
to  affirm  that  this  was  entirely  due  to  the  fact 
of  his  not  knowing  what  he  was  fit  for ;  to 
his  being,  in  brief,  a  round  peg  with  an  aston 
ishing  facility  for  getting  himself  into  square 
holes. 

When  this  opinion  had,  by  repetition,  crys 
tallized  into  formula,  St.  John  ceased  resent- 
i 


M5329G5 


ing  it.  More  :  being  truthful  even  with  him 
self,  he  began  to  admit  that  the  testimony  of 
witnesses  might  establish  a  verity.  He  had 
certainly  been  no  good  at  mining,  no  good  at 
vine  or  fruit  culture,  no  good  at  lumbering, 
or  merchandising,  or  speculating,  or  at  the 
rearing  of  ostriches.  He  had  tried  them  all, 
and  devoted  to  the  discovery  of  his  incapaci 
ty  to  cope  with  their  conditions  twelve  years 
of  his  manhood  and  all  of  his  available  capi 
tal.  And  still,  at  five-and-thirty,  the  prob 
lem  of  his  legitimate  work  in  the  world  and 
the  proper  method  of  getting  himself  into 
position  for  doing  it  remained  unsolved. 

"  What  the  dickens  am  I  fit  for  ?"  he  de 
manded  of  himself  with  asperity,  one  after 
noon,  as  he  sat  alone  on  the  veranda  of  a 
railway  hotel  in  middle  Arizona. 

Three  weeks  previous,  with  mutual  joy, 
he  and  his  last  business  partner  had  dis 
solved  connection,  so  that  St.  John  found 
himself  his  own  man  once  more,  plus  §100 
in  cash,  and  the  world  before  him  where  to 
choose. 

"I  haven't  struck  the  right  combination 
yet,"  he  ruminated,  "  which  seems  odd,  con- 


sidering  the  diligence  I've  manifested  in 
seeking  it.  Perhaps  it's  the  sections  I've 
tried  which  are  unpropitious*  That  conclu 
sion  pats  amour  propre  on  the  back,  and  is 
vastly  pleasanter  than  the  notion  that  I 
haven't  sense  enough  to  discover  my  apti 
tudes.  I  shall  adopt  it  con  amore,  for  it's  a 
deuced  deal  easier  to  change  an  environment 
than  a  character.  Hang  it  all !  I'll  trot 
around  a  bit  more  on  the  chance  of  finding 
the  home  pasture," 

An  indignant  chirp  from  a  flower-bed  be 
side  the  veranda  steps  attracted  his  attention, 
and  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  railing  and 
looked  over.  An  English  sparrow  had  dis 
covered  an  alluring  bit  of  string  attached  to 
one  of  the  straggling  geraniums  and  was 
minded  to  have  it  for  building  purposes. 
His  little  legs  were  planted  wide  apart,  with 
the  toes  braced ;  his  wings  were  half  open, 
and  his  tail  spread  ;  he  turned  and  twisted 
and  rocked  backwards  and  forwards,  pulling 
with  all  his  might.  The  stalk  shook  and 
bent  with  the  strain,  but  the  string  held  fast. 
Finding  he  could  make  nothing  of  it,  the 
bird  slacked  up  a  moment,  scratched  his 


head  with  his  claw,  and  squatted  down  to 
think,  twittering  low  in  his  throat  very  sulk- 
ily. 

St.  John  laughed. 

"  That's  it,  old  fellow,"  he  recommended. 
"  Curse  a  bit.  'Twill  ease  your  muscles  and 
your  mind.  Then,  when  you're  through 
slanging  and  have  got  your  second  wind, 
have  at  it  again.  For  the  honor  of  England, 
my  lad,  don't  let  a  bit  of  Yankee  string  beat 
yon." 

A  little  native  wren,  trim-built  and  saucy, 
who  had  been  watching  the  performance 
from  a  twig  hard  by,  now  fluttered  down 
close,  and,  apparently,  proffered  advice  and 
suggestion  in  an  amiable  twitter.  The  Eng 
lish  bird  received  it  with  contempt,  cocking 
his  eye  viciously,  flirting  his  tail,  and  utter 
ing  a  quarrelsome  note  or  two,  as  though 
bidding  his  counsellor  mind  his  own  busi 
ness,  or  go  to  the  devil.  Then,  as  if  to 
demonstrate  that  he  felt  himself  quite  suiVi- 
cient  for  the  matter  in  hand,  the  sparrow 
hopped  up  to  the  geranium  stalk,  examined  it 
closely  for  a  sappy  place,  pounded  it  thor 
oughly  with  his  beak,  grabbed  the  string 


again,  spread  his  wings  wider,  and  hopped 
backward,  jerking  with  all  his  strength.  Over 
came  the  stalk,  sawed  through  at  the  base,  and 
over  tumbled  the  bird,  flat  on  his  back,  but 
with  the  released  string  in  his  beak.  The 
wren  puffed  out  his  feathers,  ducked  down 
his  head,  and  burst  out  into  a  derisively  mirth 
ful  whistle,  which  so  incensed  the  sparrow 
that  he  gathered  himself  up  and  offered  battle 
wrathfully,  tweaking  a  feather  out  of  the 
wren's  pert  little  tail,  and  hurling  it  at  him. 
The  wren  departed  in  consternation,  leaving 
the  victorious  foreigner  to  execute  a  war- 
dance  of  triumph  with  the  feather  in  his  beak. 
When  satisfied  with  this  performance,  the 
sparrow  dropped  his  trophy  again  and  re 
turned  to  business,  chirping  lustily  the  while. 
The  string  was  long  and  a  bit  unwieldy,  but 
he  grabbed  it  pluckily  by  the  middle  and  bore 
it  away  to  a  honeysuckle  in  a  neighboring 
yard,  where  doubtless  he  boastfully  related 
the  story  of  its  acquisition  to  the  lady  of  his 
household. 

"  That's  as  good  an  object  -  lesson  as  the 
Bruce's  spider,"  was  St.  John's  inward 
comment.  "  I'll  try  another  fall  with  fortune 


immediately,  but  with  an  amendment.  The 
next  thing  I  clinch  I'll  hold  to."  He  sat 
quiet  a  while,  whistling  "Ye  wives  o*  Merrie 
England  "  under  his  breath  ;  then  he  rose  and 
stretched  himself.  "Heigh-ho!  this  is  very 
dull  !  Here  I've  been  for  a  week  and  noth 
ing's  happened.  I  wonder  if  the  post  is  in  ? 
My  mail  was  to  be  forwarded,  and  it's  about 
time  her  ladyship  honored  me.  I  wish  she'd 
let  up  on  that  matrimonial  business  though." 

lie  betook  himself  to  the  clerk's  office  and 
found  there  a  couple  of  letters  awaiting  him  ; 
both  forwarded  from  his  late  address.  One 
bore  the  English  post-mark,  the  other  that  of 
an  unimportant  town  in  Texas.  St.  John  re 
turned  with  them  to  his  chair  on  the  veranda. 

The  English  letter  received  first  attention. 
It  was  from  his  sister,  Lady  Wolcott,  and 
contained  all  the  home  intelligence,  in  detail, 
given  with  the  sprightliness  and  savoirfaire 
of  a  woman  of  the  world.  St.  John  pored 
over  the  closely  written  pages  with  keen  in 
terest  and  a  twinge  of  homesickness.  How 
jolly  it  all  was !  how  attractive,  how  finely 
finished !  Even  the  perfume  exhaled  by  the 
thin,  bluish,  crested  paper  touched  memory 


and  awakened  association.  How  he  longed 
for  it  all,  setting  it  in  contrast  with  the  crude, 
almost  elementary,  life  of  the  past  dozen 
years —  the  crass,  unfinished  surroundings. 
Stay  ;  here  was  a  summons  back  to  it. 

"When  are  you  coming  to  see  us?"  de 
manded  the  written  page.  "  Surely  in  twelve 
years  you  must  have  made  money  enough  to 
afford  a  visit  home.  I  long  to  show  you  my 
boys — the  babies  you  left  in  petticoats — 
grown  to  be  great,  manly,  public-school  fel 
lows.  Leave  your  partner  to  regulate  affairs 
for  a  while,  and  come  you  home  to  embrace 
your  family.  My  Harry,  as  usual,  takes  pes 
simistic  views  of  this  new  venture  of  yours, 
and  vows  you'll  make  nothing  of  it,  be 
cause  of  the  trouble  on  the  South  African 
ostrich  farms  last  season.  I  tell  him  that 
can't  possibly  apply  to  California,  and  that 
mortality  among  the  African  birds  may  in 
crease  the  value  and  the  profit  of  "the  Ameri 
can.  He  still  shakes  his  head,  however, 
thinking  lightly  of  my  logic ;  so  come  over 
and  convince  him  yourself  that  this  time  you 
really  have  been  judicious." 

St.  John  laid  the  letter  on  his  knee  and 


gazed  away  to  the  southwest,  where  the 
Sierras  lay  purple  against  the  sky,  with  a  cu 
riously  regretful  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"  Not  yet,  Maudie,"  he  pondered  ;  "  not  yet 
a  while,  dear  girl.  I  haven't  been  judicious, 
and  have  had  the  devil's  luck  in  consequence. 
We'll  leave  it,  dear,  for,  after  all  that's  been 
said  and  predicted,  I  can't  go  home  a  failure. 
Harry  shakes  his  head,  does  he  ?  He'll  nod 
it  like  a  mandarin,  with  triumph,  when  he 
hears  the  ostrich  business  has  gone  to  pot, 
too.  Hanged  if  I  tell  him  a  word  about  it, 
or  Maudie  either.  There's  Tom,  too,  with 
the  bulk  of  the  family  estate  in  his  pocket, 
would  be  wagging  his  head  in  addition  and 
recommending  me  to  recoup  myself  with  a 
cotton-spinner's  daughter.  No,  friends,  I'll 
knock  about  a  bit  longer  trying  for  a  big  pot, 
keeping  the  ocean  neatly  between  me  and 
family  comment.  'Twill  be  more  whole 
some.  Brothers  and  brothers-in-law  are  all 
very  well  at  a  distance,  but  close  at  hand 
they've  a  nasty  habit  of  being  hard  on  fail 
ure.  I'd  like  well  to  see  Maudie  and  her 
boys  though  —  uncommonly  well.  But  it 
can't  be  yet  a  while.  I  came  to  the  States  to 


make  a  big  strike,  and  here  I'll  stay  till  I 
make  it,  or  go  under  altogether." 

Then  he  addressed  himself  to  his  letter 
again.  There  were  still  four  closely  written 
pages  to  read. 

"  Have  you  thought  over  what  I  said  in 
my  last  letter  about  that  step-uncle  of  ours  ?" 
questioned  Lady  Wolcott.  "And,  more  than 
all,  have  you  taken  any  steps  towards  track 
ing  him  up  ?  I  told  you  of  finding  his  photo 
in  the  Book  of  Revelations  in  papa's  Bible, 
last  spring,  when  I  was  hunting  up  a  date. 
It's  a  faded  old  thing,  but  very  gentlemanly 
looking.  Last  week  I  took  it  down  to  Marsh 
Mallow  Hall  and  showed  it  to  Tom.  Tom 
was  six  years  old  when  Uncle  Clere  went  to 
the  States,  and  remembers  him  distinctly — a 
fine,  soldierly  man,  he  was,  Tom  says,  and 
devoted  to  papa,  his  half-brother.  We  rum 
maged  over  his  old  letters  in  papa's  desk,  and 
found  that  he  settled  first  in  Virginia — owned 
a  plantation  there  and  slaves.  During  the 
Civil  War  he  fought  for  the  Confederacy  ;  was 
a  colonel  in  their  army.  After  the  war,  Uncle 
Clere  seems  to  have  become  disgusted  with  the 
way  things  were  going  in  Virginia,  and  sold  out 


ra 


and  moved  to  the  Southwest  somewhere.  He 
mentions  this  in  the  last  letter  I  can  find,  one 
written  shortly  before  papa's  death,  but  he 
doesn't  say  to  what  portion  of  the  country  he 
was  going.  Says  *  I'll  write  again  when  I've 
located.'  Since  papa's  death,  you  know,  none 
of  us  have  troubled  our  heads  about  him,  al 
though  you  should  have  done  so,  being  his 
namesake,  and  for  the  last  dozen  years  right 
in  the  same  country  with  him.  Do  hunt  him 
up,  Clere,  without  any  more  loss  of  time ! 
llis  letters  are  those  of  a  prosperous  man, 
and  he  may  be  able  to  do  something  hand 
some  for  you.  Who  knows?  You  always 
neglect  your  chances  so  that  I'm  quite  in 
despair  about  you.  Any  other  man  would 
have  hunted  up  Uncle  Clere  inside  of  twelve 
months,  and  you've  let  twelve  years  slip  by 
without  an  effort  to  find  him.  It  all  comes 
back  to  what  I -always  say — you  need  a  woman 
at  your  back  to  look  out  for  you.  You'll 
never  make  a  success  of  your  life  until  you 
marry.  Some  horses,  you  know,  are  nothing 
in  single  harness,  and  yet  work  splendidly  in 
a  span.  There  really  must  be  some  nice, 
clever  girl  in  America  with  beauty  and  wealth, 


H 


who  would  be  glad  of  a  chance  to  ally  herself 
with  your  sweet  temper  and  the  St.  John 
blood.  American  women,  when  they  have 
money  and  looks,  are  the  rage  here,  and  some 
of  them  are  really  very  nice.  They've  a  pen 
chant  for  Englishmen,  too,  and  from  all  1  can 
hear  make  very  fair  wives.  Do  find  yourself 
a  rich,  pretty,  well-bred  girl,  and  marry  her, 
Clere.  You  are  five-and-thirty,  you  know,  and, 
perhaps,  are  even  getting  gray.  Papa  did  at 
thirty.  You'll  be  twice  the  man  with  a  wife 
to  look  after  you,  and  if  she  should  be  even 
moderately  presentable  I'll  take  her  up.  A 
wife  would  be  the  making  of  you  all  around." 

St.  John  put  the  letter  back  into  its  en 
velope  a  trifle  impatiently.  This  constant 
harping  on  material  advantages  to  be  brought 
about  by  marriage  vexed  him.  It  seemed  to 
brush  the  bloom  from  the  grape,  to  reduce 
that  which  is  highest  to  a  business  basis.  He 
was  past  his  first  youth,  but  had  not  outlived 
youth's  reverence  for  romance.  His  whole 
being  revolted  from  the  unloveliness  of  the 
mariage  de  convenance. 

The  reference  to  his  step-uncle  interested 
him  more  nearly,  and  he  pulled  out  Lady 


Wolcott's  letter  again,  and  read  that  part  of 
it  over,  noticing  now  a  marginal  note  in  which 
the  lady  stated,  evidently  as  an  after-thought, 
her  intention  of  dropping  a  line  to  Mr.  Grif 
fith,  their  family  solicitor,  lest  haply  he  might 
have  more  recent  tidings  of  the  missing  kins 
man.  The  result  of  this  inquiry  she  would 
forward  later,  should  it  prove  of  interest  or 
importance,  Lady  Wolcott  said. 

When  the  existence  of  this  long-lost-sight- 
of  relative  had  first  been  brought  to  his  no 
tice,  St.  John  had  vaguely  determined  to 
"  hunt  the  old  boy  up  some  day,"  but  be 
yond  that  he  had  done  nothing.  His  indi 
vidual  affairs  absorbed  his  attention,  and 
America  is  a  big  place  to  track  down  a  man 
in — especially  on  the  insufficient  data  given 
in  Lady  Wolcott's  first  epistle.  He  had 
known  all  his  life  that  his  grandmother  had 
been  twice  married,  and  also  that  the  son  of 
the  first  union  —  Clere  Lawless— a  man  of 
whom  his  own  father  was  fond — had  emi 
grated  to  America  before  he  himself  had 
been  born.  But  beyond  that  he  had  known 
nothing,  nor  had  he  troubled  himself  to  in 
quire.  This  last  letter  of  Maudie's  put  mat- 


13 


tcrs  in  better  shape,  for  a  colonel  of  the  Con 
federacy  must  be  more  easily  identified  than 
an  utterly  undistinguished  individual. 

"  I  wish  the  old  boy  'd  take  a  notion  to 
hunt  me  up,"  meditated  St.  John.  "  I'm 
lots  easier  tracked  up  than  he  will  be  in  this 
country  of  no  family  solicitors." 

By  a  singular  coincidence  this  was  exactly 
what  Colonel  Lawless  had  been  about ;  prov 
ing  that  a  sequence  of  thought  operating 
from  diverse  starting-points  may  happily 
meet  at  a  common  centre.  St.  John  opened 
his  second  letter  carelessly,  but  in  less  than 
a  moment  straightened  up  in  his  chair  with 
every  faculty  at  attention.  It  was  dated 
from  a  place  called  Marsh  Mallow  Ranch,  in 
Texas,  and  its  contents  was  as  follows  : 

"  To  Mr.  CLERE  ST.  JOHN,  Tahoia,  Cal. : 

"DEAR  NEPHEW,  —  A  Calif ornian,  named 
Thomlins,  stopped  at  my  ranch  six  months 
ago,  and  in  the  course  of  conversation  men 
tioned  an  ostrich  farm  started  near  him  by  a 
Vermont  Yankee  and  an  Englishman  —  a 
Devonshire  man — called  Clere  St.  John. 
Now  that  name  and  locality  coming  to- 


gether  set  me  thinking,  for  I'm  Devon  my- 
self,  and  had  (God  rest  his  soul !)  a  half- 
brother  named  St.  John,  who  was  dear  to 
me.  The  upshot  of  the  matter  is,  that  I 
wrote  home  to  Griffiths,  the  family  solicitor, 
to  make  inquiries,  and  I  find  that  my  brother 
Tom's  son — the  little  chap  he  named  after 
me — has  been  within  hail  of  me,  so  to  speak, 
for  many  years,  and  I  not  knowing  it.  My 
own  fault,  you  will  say,  for  dropping  the 
home  ties,  and  you'll  be  in  the  right.  But 
after  Tom's  death  I  didn't  feel  near  to  any 
body  in  the  old  country ;  his  children  were 
strangers,  and  my  own  interests  all  on  this 
side,  and  so  the  drifting  came  about.  We'll 
mend  it  now,  lad,  if  you're  willing,  and 
will  set  your  own  matters  aside  and  come 
down  to  my  ranch  for  a  visit.  I  don't  stir 
around  much  myself  any  more,  because  of  a 
wound  I've  got,  and  also  the  oncoming  of 
age.  Let  me  hear  from  you  at  earliest  con 
venience,  and  make  the  answer  affirmative. 
I'll  like  rarely  well  to  shake  Tom's  boy  by 
the  hand,  and  chat  a  bit  over  old  Devon 
days.  Affectionately,  your  uncle, 

"CLERE  LAWLESS." 


St.  John  laid  the  letter  open  on  his  knee, 
and  slapped  his  hand  down  on  it  amusedly. 

"  Talk  of  brain-waves  "  quoth  he  to  him 
self.  "  Here's  a  case  of  it,  with  a  vengeance. 
*  We  think  o'  he — he  o'  we,'  and  presto !  a 
connection  is  established.  To  think  of  the 
old  chappie  writing  to  Griffith  for  informa 
tion —  just  what  Maudie  was  going  to  do. 
There  must  be  a  precious  deal  in  common 
between  those  two  to  set  them  conjuring 
simultaneously,  and  along  the  same  lines. 
Fifty  years  ago  they'd  have  earned  a  stake 
apiece,  and  faggots.  A  good  job  for  them 
that  these  are  the  days  of  psychic  research, 
and  folks  don't  scare  easy.  To  think  of  the 
pair  of  them,  with  no  previous  knowledge  of 
each  other,  or  collusion,  and  an  ocean  be 
tween  them,  joining  issue  on  me,  so  success 
fully  !  It  beats  out  Blavatsky  with  the  tea 
cups  and  roses."  Then  his  thought  took  a 
turn.  "  Poor  Uncle  Clere  !  he  seems  to  have 
cared  a  good  deal  for  my  father,  which  makes 
it  incumbent  on  my  father's  son  to  gratify 
him  in  this  matter  of  acquaintance.  I'll  hie 
me  down  to  Texas,  and  give  the  wheel  of  fort 
une  another  spin.  It  may  twirl  to  luck  this 
time.  Who  knows  ?" 


II 

"  Miss  JUDY  !" 

«  Well,  Nat." 

"Ole  Dick's  down— flat!  I  dunno  what 
ails  him." 

"  Good  gracious  !     Where  are  the  men  ?" 

"  Off  to  the  round-up— every  jack-rabbit  of 
'em.  Left  afore  sun-up." 

"  That's  awful !  What  ever  shall  we  do  ? 
Run  back  to  the  corral,  Nat,  and  make  him 
get  up.  Is  he  locoed,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Nary  time !  Locoed  creeters  play  high- 
jinks,  an'  Dick's  quiet  as  a  steer— down  on 
his  side  an'  trimblin'  like  agur  fits.  Dad  had 
a  mustang  eat  loco  weed  once  an'  three  men 
couldn't  hold  him,  he  had  such  connip- 
shuns." 

"Truly?  This  can't  be  loco  then.  Scamper 
back  to  the  corral,  Nat,  and  wait  for  me.  We 
must  do  something.  I  won't  be  a  minute." 

Then  came  the  sound  of  a  leap  out  of  bed, 


17 


the  opening  and  shutting  of  drawers,  and  a 
general  skurry  of  preparation. 

The  messenger  of  evil,  a  freckled,  tow- 
headed  imp  of  twelve,  the  son  of  one  of  the 
cowboys,  and  the  special  factotum  of  Miss  Ju 
dith  Fontaine,  the  proprietor's  daughter,  heark 
ened  a  moment,  then  quitted  the  gallery  with 
a  whoop  and  sped  back  towards  the  corral. 

The  sun  was  just  showing  himself  above 
the  rim  of  the  prairie,  dull  red  and  sulky,  as 
though  the  other  side  of  the  world  had  been 
too  much  for  his  nerves.  He  blinked  at,  rath 
er  than  shone  upon,  the  quaint,  white  adobe 
mansion,  with  its  red-tiled  roof  and  surround 
ing  outer  gallery.  The  inner  court-yard  was 
still  dusk  with  shadow,  and,  since  the  riding 
forth,  half  an  hour  before,  of  Henry  Fontaine, 
with  his  following  of  native  vaqueros  and 
imported  cowboys,  had  relapsed  into  silence 
and  slumber.  Besides  the  boy,  Nat  Thomas, 
there  were  only  women  left  about  the  house. 
And  wherefore  not  ?  since  the  men  would 
return  by  moonrise,  perhaps,  and  the  only 
creatures  ih  the  house  corral  to  be  cared  for 
were  a  couple  of  kittenish  colts,  whose  dams 
had  gone  to  the  round-up,  and  a  sedate  mid- 
2 


die  -  aged  mule  with  a  swelled  leg,  who 
weighed  eighteen  hundred  pounds,  and  was 
supposed  to  be  able  to  look  out  for  himself. 
As  though  to  prove  the  weakness  of  all  hu 
man  calculation,  this  mule  now  lay  upon  his 
side  in  a  corner  of  the  corral,  trembling  like 
an  aspen  in  a  breeze,  his  countenance  dis 
tressed  with  pain,  and  his  huge  ears  cold  and 
flopping.  His  afflicted  leg  was  outstretched 
to  its  limit,  but  the  other  three  were  doubled 
under  him  in  a  helpless  sort  of  fashion.  He 
held  his  head  up  still,  but  in  a  melancholy 
position;  and  to  Nat's  suggestions  about 
getting  up  he  paid  no  sort  of  heed,  beyond 
backing  his  ears  irritably  and  switching  his 
stump  tail  about  in  reprobation. 

Judy  came  running  into  the  corral,  at 
speed,  with  a  stout  quart  bottle  in  her  hand. 
Her  brown  hair  was  clubbed  into  a  fluffy  knot 
on  the  top  of  her  head,  and  her  winsome  face 
was  filled  with  anxiety.  She  had  not  taken 
time  to  dress,  but  had  come  in  her  dressing- 
gown,  with  her  little  bare  feet  thrust  into 
scarlet  slippers.  She  was  an  impulsive  young 
woman,  brimming  over  with  energy  and  the 
out-reaching  to  helpfulness. 


19 


"  Is  he  very  bad  ?"  she  demanded,  hasten 
ing  forward. 

"  I  dunno  'm,"  Nat  answered.  "  He  won't 
get  up,  all  I  can  do." 

"lie  must — he  shall /  Get  a  bridle  and 
put  it  on  him.  He'll  obey  the  bit  from  habit. 
Poor  old  Dicky !  What  hurts  you  ?  Can't 
you  make  mistress  understand  ?  Make  haste, 
Nat!" 

The  mule  sucked  in  his  breath  and  gave  it 
out  again  in  a  sigh  of  pain ;  he  drooped  his 
head  until  his  muzzle  rested  on  the  ground, 
and  fell  a-trembling  again  worse  than  ever. 

"  Hurry  up  Nat !  for  Heaven's  sake  !  He's 
going  to  faint,  or  die,  or  something !" 

They  got  the  bridle  on  him,  and,  under  its 
coercion,  the  mule  dragged  himself  to  his 
feet,  but  contrived  to  look  sicker  standing 
than  he  had  lying  down. 

"  Maybe  he's  got  cramp,  Nat,"  suggested 
the  young  lady.  "If  he  has  he  ought  to 
be  drenched  with  something.  I  know  that 
much,  and  here's  a  quart  of  whiskey.  Whiskey 
is  bound  to  be  good  for  cramps — people  take 
it.  Carmclita  always  does.  Let's  give  it  to 
him.  Do  you  know  how  ?" 


Nat  grinned  and  nodded. 

"  I've  helped  Dad  drench  horses,"  he  ad 
mitted.  "  But  he  never  give  'em  whiskey. 
lie  stewed  up  roots  to  a  strong  tea  an' 
drenched  with  that.  Or  he  give  'em  turpen 
tine." 

"  How  much  ?" 

"  I  ain't  never  noticed." 

"  There  it  is  !"  impatiently,  "  and  while  we 
are  hesitating  this  poor  creature  suffers. 
There !  see,  he  wants  to  lie  down  again. 
Something  must  be  done  at  once,  or  he'll  die. 
Keep  him  up,  Nat.  I'm  going  to  give  him 
this  whiskey." 

"  Come  on  then,"  grinned  Nat.  "  We  all 
got  to  take  him  to  a  tree  an'  hold  his  head 
up,  or  he  won't  swallow  wuth  a  cent." 

The  ranch  was  an  old  one,  and  trees  about 
the  house  were  abundant.  They  led  the 
mule  to  a  low- branching  pecan,  which  Nat 
climbed  nimbly.  Straddling  a  limb  securely, 
he  threw  the  reins  over  one  higher  and  drew 
the  beast's  head  up  to  the  limit  of  his  throat, 
holding  him  helpless,  and  within  proper  range 
for  further  operations.  Then  he  skilfully 
inserted  the  neck  of  the  bottle  into  the  tooth- 


less  vacancy  at  the  side  of  the  mule's  mouth 
and  began  to  pour.  Judy  watched  the  per 
formance  anxiously  from  the  ground. 

"  He  isn't  swallowing  a  bit,"  she  exclaimed, 
indignantly ;  "  he's  just  holding  it  in  his 
mouth.  He  hasn't  gulped  once.  Swallow, 
you  idiot,  swallow,  this  minute  !" 

Nat  kept  pouring,  and  the  liquor  dribbled 
in  a  tiny  stream  down  the  outside  of  the  ani 
mal's  brown  throat. 

"  That  won't  do,"  Nat  observed,  disgusted 
ly.  "  The  truck's  just  wastin'.  Thar  ought 
to  be  somebody  to  rub  his  gullet  down  an* 
sort  of  fumble  it  under  his  chin  to  make  him 
swallow.  Dad  allus  has  help  in  drenchin';" 
he  looked  at  the  girl  doubtfully,  and  then 
cast  his  glance  abroad,  seeking  more  stalwart 
assistance. 

Judy  pushed  up  the  sleeves  of  her  dressing- 
gown  and  advanced  at  once.  She  was  not  at 
all  timid  about  beasts,  and  hated  to  see  any 
thing  suffer. 

"  Tell  me  what  to  do,  and  I'll  do  it,"  she 
said,  valiantly. 

But  Nat  had  his  eye  on  a  horseman  who 
was  travelling  the  prairie  just  beyond  the 


hacienda  enclosures.  Some  belated  cowboy 
on  his  way  to  the  round-up,  he  concluded, 
and,  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  sent  his 
voice  out  in  a  shout  for  assistance. 

Judy,  meanwhile,  having  glanced  over  her 
shoulder  to  see  who  her  assistant  was  hailing, 
had  fallen  to  work  on  the  mule's  gullet,  and 
was  massaging  to  the  limit  of  her  ability.  In  a 
moment  she  proudly  announced  that  the  creat 
ure  had  swallowed,  and  Nat  proceeded  to 
pour  again.  So  busy  and  excited  were  they 
over  this  unexpected  success  that  they  neg 
lected  to  notice  that  the  horseman  had  heard, 
and  was  responding  to  Nat's  summons.  He 
rode  to  the  enclosure,  dismounted,  and  joined 
the  group  quite  unheeded,  for  Nat  was  giving 
the  bottle  a  final  tilt,  the  last  drops  were  gur 
gling  to  the  place  where  they  would  do  the 
most  good,  and  Judy's  little  white  hands  were 
chasing  one  another  up  and  down  the  mule's 
throat  with  energy. 

The  lace  and  ribbons  of  her  dressing-gown 
had  loosened,  leaving  her  pretty  rounded 
throat  and  a  bit  of  her  white  neck  exposed ; 
the  sleeves  had  slipped  above  the  elbows, 
showing  the  white  flesh  of  the  forearms  and 


the  roguish  little  dimples  which  played  in 
and  out,  at  wrist  and  elbow,  with  her  ener 
getic  movements.  Her  eyes  were  alight  with 
sympathy  and  interest ;  her  lips  were  parted; 
the  exercise  had  stained  her  cheeks  with  car 
mine.  Altogether  she  made  a  winsome  pict 
ure  standing  under  the  chin  of  the  ungainly 
brown  brute,  and  Clere  St.  John  appreciated 
it,  from  the  knot  of  fluffy  hair  to  the  naked 
slippered  feet. 

"  Let  me  do  that  for  you,"  he  said,  regard 
less  of  preliminary  courtesies. 

Judy  moved  aside  at  once. 

"  He's  swallowed  it  all  pretty  well,"  she 
said.  "But  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to 
rub  his  poor  old  throat  a  little  more." 

Instinctively,  she  huddled  her  laces  close 
at  her  own  throat,  and  held  them,  at  the  same 
time  covering  her  feet.  She  recognized  St. 
John's  social  status  at  the  first  glance ;  but 
cowboys,  who  were  also  gentlemen  born,  were 
no  novelty  in  that  region,  so  that  she  pro 
ceeded  to  explain  the  situation  without  the 
faintest  embarrassment. 

"  All  the  men  have  gone  to  the  round-up," 
she  informed  him,  "  and  this  creature  took 


it  upon  him  to  be  ill.  We  were  frightened 
out  of  our  wits,  Nat  and  I,  but  we've  dosed 
him  well,  and  1  think  he'll  be  better  soon. 
Let  his  head  down,  Nat.  Why,  he  looks 
better  already." 

"  What  did  you  give  him  ?"  St.  John  in 
quired,  regarding  the  animal  critically. 

"  Whiskey.  A  whole  quart,"  indicating 
the  bottle  with  pride. 

St.  John  strangled  a  desire  to  laugh,  and 
glanced  up  at  Nat,  who  was  dangling  his  legs 
from  the  pecan  limb  and  grinning  from  ear  to 
ear. 

"  I  tole  Miss  Judy  I  never  hearn  o'  drench 
ing  with  whiskey,"  the  boy  giggled. 

"Was  it  wrong?"  Judy  demanded,  ad 
dressing  herself  directly  to  St.  John.  "  Will 
it  kill  him?" 

"  By  no  means,"  St.  John  answered.  "  It'll 
make  him  feel  foolish  after  a  bit,  but  it  won't 
hurt  him.  A  mule  has  no  character  to  lose. 
Now,  this  leg,  /  should  say,  was  the  trouble," 
indicating  the  swelling.  "  It  looks  pretty 
painful.  Have  you  any  liniment  or  turpentine 
— either  will  do.  It  ought  to  be  rubbed  and 
fomented.  I'll  fix  it  for  you,  with  pleasure." 


Nat  was  despatched  to  the  house  on  an 
other  medical  quest,  and,  during  his  absence, 
St.  John  improved  the  opportunity  by  mak 
ing  some  inquiries  as  to  Marsh  Mallow  Ranch, 
which  he  was  beginning  to  regard  as  an  ig 
nis  fatuus.  He  had  left  the  railway  a  hun 
dred  miles  below,  and  staged  to  a  prairie 
town  called  Dundalk,  said  to  be  only  fifty 
miles  from  the  ranch  in  question.  Here, 
being  enamoured  of  the  clever  device  of  tak 
ing  his  kindred  by  surprise,  he  had  bought 
a  mustang,  and  since  the  previous  morning 
had  been  riding  by  verbal  directions,  with 
quite  the  customary  result. 

"As  far  as  I  can  see,  I'm  imitating  the 
White  Queen  in  Alice"  he  smiled.  " I  seem 
to  be  *  going  as  fast  as  I  can  to  stay  in  one 
place.'  Every  question  gets  the  same  an 
swer — about  ten  miles  along ;  not  that  I've 
had  much  chance  for  questions,  however. 
And  I  travel  that  ten  and  ten  to  it,  and  don't 
get  any  nearer.  This  can't  be  Marsh  Mal 
low  ?"  looking  at  her  rather  eagerly. 

Judy  shook  her  head. 

"  Marsh  Mallow  Ranch  is  over  there,"  sho 
said,  pointing  southwest. 


"Ten  miles?" 

The  girl  laughed. 

"  Eight  this  time.  It's  beyond  that  ridge. 
See — there  where  the  prairie  lifts  to  the  sky 
line.  There's  a  canon  over  there,  and  a  wa 
tercourse.  Marsh  Mallow  is  beyond.  Colo 
nel  Lawless  joins  us  thereaway." 

She  was  taking  stock  of  the  young  fellow 
while  she  spoke,  wondering  who  he  could  be. 
Nat  had  unceremoniously  halted  a  traveller ! 
She  began  to  be  conscious  of  her  deficiencies 
of  toilet.  Strangely  enough,  too,  the  face 
began  to  seem  familiar  in  contour  and  ex 
pression.  Who  did  this  stranger  remind  her 
of  ?  St.  John  himself  dissipated  that  little 
mystery  ere  it  was  well  formulated. 

"  Colonel  Lawless  is  my  uncle,"  he  ex 
plained  ;  "  or,  rather,  my  half-uncle,  my  fa 
ther  being  the  son  of  a  second  marriage. 
My  name  is  St.  John,  and  I  am  on  my  way 
to  Marsh  Mallow  to  make  my  kinsman's  ac 
quaintance.  He  left  home — left  England,  I 
mean — before  I  was  born."  For  some  unex- 
plainable  reason  he  felt  eagerly  explicit.  "  I'm 
glad  you  are  neighbors,"  he  added. 

The  young  lady  waived  that  point. 


"  You  are  like  your  uncle,"  she  said.  "  I 
noticed  something  familiar  about  you  at  once, 
and  see  now  that  it's  your  resemblance  to 
Colonel  Lawless.  Here's  Nat  with  the  lini 
ment.  Are  you  sure  it  won't  trouble  you  to 
fix  Dick's  leg?  Nat  can  do  it,  you  know, 
under  your  direction." 

She  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then,  obe 
dient  to  her  hospitable  instincts,  invited  him 
to  remain  and  breakfast  with  them. 

"  My  aunt,  Mrs.  Lestrange,  will  welcome 
you  in  my  father's  place,"  she  observed,  as 
sedately  as  though  she  were  not  confronting 
him  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers.  "  Nat 
will  attend  to  your  horse,  and  all  things  else 
that  are  needful.  The  breakfast  -  bell  will 
ring  in  half  an  hour.  Au  revoir  /" 

And  "  au  revoir  /"  St.  John  repeated,  well 
pleased  with  himself,  with  her,  and  with  the 
prospect  of  a  substantial  morning  meal. 


Ill 


BREAKFAST  was  served  in  a  long,  low-brow 
ed  apartment,  with  wide  lattices  opening  on  a 
garden  which,  under  the  October  sun,  was  a 
blaze  of  beauty  and  color.  Luxuriant  Ma 
deira  vines  and  climbing  roses  rioted  over 
trellises  and  leaped  from  them  upward  into 
the  arms  of  fig  and  pecan  trees.  Thickets  of 
strange  cacti  huddled  under  tropical-looking 
bananas,  thrusting  abroad  distorted  limbs, 
weirdly  glowing  at  the  joints  with  flame-col 
ored  and  carmine  blossoms.  Caladiums,  be 
gonias,  cyclomens,  and  coleus  in  manifold 
variety  mingled  tinted  foliage  in  a  gorgeous 
harlequinade  of  contrasting  hues  and  harmo 
nious  shadings ;  while  above  their  radiant 
masses  tall  cannas  uplifted  spikes  of  scarlet, 
red,  and  orange  flowers.  Mingled. with  these, 
contesting  supremacy  in  variety  and  beauty 
of  color,  were  mats  of  verbenas,  spreading 
themselves,  like  glorious  Oriental  rugs,  over 


the  walks  and  the  little  grass-plots.  Near 
the  centre  of  the  garden  a  fountain  cast  its 
jet  aloft  to  wanton  in  the  sunlight,  or  to  coyly 
slant  aside,  in  myriad  rainbow  flashings,  at 
the  instance  of  each  vagrant  breeze.  Beyond 
the  garden  were  groups  of  hackberry,  cotton- 
wood,  and  umbrella  trees,  and  beyond  again 
the  limitless  stretch  of  the  prairie. 

Judy,  decorously  gowned  and  shod,  with 
a  bunch  of  roses  at  her  trim  belt  and  a  smile 
of  hilarity  upon  her  countenance,  met  her 
guest  in  the  hall,  and  marshalled  him  into 
the  breakfast-room,  where  she  presented  him 
to  an  elderly  lady.  The  latter  had  a  face  of 
great  beauty  and  trailing  garments  of  black, 
and,  having  been  instructed  aforehand,  re 
ceived  him  with  grace,  and  that  perfection 
of  cordiality  which  converts  an  unceremo 
nious  happening  into  a  pleasant  matter  of 
course. 

St.  John,  feeling  his  British  shyness  dis 
solve  like  frost  in  sunlight,  stoutly  endeav 
ored  to  be  responsive.  He  succeeded  so 
well  that,  by  the  time  old  Carmilita,  the  half- 
breed  cook,  had  sent  in  the  last  batch  of  tor 
tillas,  or  St.  John  himself  had  conquered  the 


...I 


fire  of  his  first  tamale,  the  two  were  chatting 
like  old  acquaintances ;  and  many  items  of 
interest  connected  with  the  Fontaine  and  Le 
strange  family  history  had  passed  into  the 
stranger's  keeping. 

For  instance,  St.  John  learned  that  his  ab 
sent  host,  Henry  Fontaine,  was  a  widower  of 
twenty  years'  standing,  that  Judy  was  his 
only  child,  and  that  the  combination  of  phys 
ical  circumstances  which  had  presented  him 
with  the  one  joy  had  deprived  him  of  the 
other.  By  which  he  made  out  to  his  entire 
satisfaction  that  Miss  Fontaine  could  have  no 
recollection  of  her  mother,  and  also  that  she 
must  be  twenty  years  of  age.  Then  he  inci 
dentally  discovered  that  Mrs.  Lestrange  was 
not  the  childless  relic  her  garments  seemed 
to  indicate,  but  possessed  a  stalwart,  sea-going 
husband  addicted  to  long  absences  and  the 
South  American  coast  trade,  and  a  couple  of 
equally  stalwart  sons  who  dutifully  emulated 
the  paternal  methods.  During  her  temporary 
widowhoods — that  is,  about  two-thirds  of  her 
time — Mrs.  Lestrange  visited  in  the  interior 
at  her  brother's  ranch,  and  during  the  re 
maining  third  she  visited  at  her  own  house 


in  Galveston.  That  her  sombre  robes  were 
apart  from  affliction  and  death,  and  worn  be 
cause  she  deemed  them  becoming,  St.  John 
figured  out  for  himself. 

After  breakfast  Judy  took  him -into  the 
garden.  St.  John  seized  the  opportunity  to 
free  his  mind  of  some  burning  questions  rel 
ative  to  his  little-known  kinsman.  Within 
doors  he  had  been  too  much  occupied  in  re 
ceiving  impressions  of  another  sort  to  pay 
heed  to  his  own  affairs.  Now,  he  collared 
his  subject  after  the  British  manner,  with  a 
straight  thrust  and  no  unnecessary  preamble. 

"  See  here,  Miss  Fontaine,"  he  said,  as  they 
paused  beside  the  fountain,  "I  wish  you'd 
coach  me  a  bit  about  Marsh  Mallow.  I'm 
Colonel  Lawless's  step -nephew,  and  on  my 
way  to  visit  him,  but  I  really  know  precious 
little  about  him.  Can't  you  enlighten  me  ? 
His  letter  of  invitation  is  aggravatingly  de 
void  of  personal  information.  You  can  see 
for  yourself,  if  you  like" — he  drew  the  mis 
sive  from  his  pocket  and  presented  it  to  her. 

Judy  seated  herself  on  the  grass  beside  the 
fountain  and  began  throwing  bread-crumbs 
into  the  basin  for  the  goldfish. 


"  What  do  you  wish  to  know  ?"  she  in 
quired. 

"  First,  is  there  any  family  ?  My  uncle 
mentions  none.  Then,  what  manner  of  man 
is  Colonel  Lawless  himself  ?" 

Judy  took  the  questions  in  order. 

"  There  is  a  daughter  and  a  son,"  she  said, 
laying  the  colonel's  letter,  unread,  on  the 
grass  beside  her.  "  The  daughter  is  married 
to  a  Spanish  -  American  and  lives  at  home. 
Her  husband  is  a  literary  man  and  a  cripple. 
It  was  sad  about  him.  When  he  went  for  his 
license  to  be  married  to  Miss  Lawless,  a  long 
journey,  ten  years  ago,  it  was  to  the  court 
house  ;  his  horse  frightened  and  ran  away, 
breaking  the  buggy  into  kindling-wood,  and 
throwing  Colonel  Lawless  and  Luis  Mejares 
both  out  on  the  rocky  edge  of  a  canon. 
Colonel  Lawless  escaped  with  a  few  bruises, 
but  Mejares  had  both  legs  broken.  Bringing 
him  home  made  matters  worse,  and  then  a 
young  doctor  they  fished  up  from  somewhere 
in  a  hurry  mismanaged  the  case,  so  that  the 
bones  knit  badly.  Mr.  Mejares  used  crutches 
for  a  while,  but  he  began  to  lay  on  flesh  about 
five  years  ago,  as  people  of  Spanish  blood 


88 


are  prone  to  do,  and  got  too  heavy  for  it  to 
be  safe.  He  uses  a  wheeled  chair  now,  and 
gets  about  more  comfortably.  He  writes 
charming  stories,  and  has  quite  a  reputation. 
Perhaps  you  know  his  work." 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  he  assented ;  "  I  read  lots 
of  stories  as  I  go  along,  but  I  don't  always 
notice  the  author's  name,  or  remember  it 
when  I  do  notice.  It's  a  good  thing  this 
poor  fellow  has  a  profession  which  doesn't 
require  legs.  I'm  glad  my  cousin  had  the 
pluck  to  carry  on  the  engagement." 

Judy  looked  up  at  him  with  wide-open 
eyes  of  inquiry. 

"  What  pluck  was  required  ?"  demanded 
she,  in  surprise.  "She  loved  Mr.  Mejares 
devotedly.  It  was  a  love-match  from  the  be 
ginning,  for  her  father  would  have  preferred 
an  Englishman  for  her,  and  there  were  plenty 
in  Texas,  even  ten  years  ago.  Mejares  got 
hurt  going  for  his  license  to  wed  her,  more 
over  ;  so  of  course  Miss  Lawless  felt  responsi 
ble,  and  as  if  she  could  never  make  it  up. 
She  married  him  the  minute  his  legs  were 
set,  standing  in  her  white  dress  among  the 
bottles  and  bandages.  She  had  to  do  that, 


you  know,  so  as  to  take  chief  part  in  the 
nursing." 

St.  John  looked  approval.  Maudic's  house 
of  cards  as  to  a  possible  heirship  for  himself 
had  tumbled  into  ruins,  as  such  structures 
have  a  malicious  habit  of  doing.  He  had 
given  that  aspect  of  the  matter  small  thought 
himself,  so  that  this  news  of  a  family  at  Marsh 
Mallow  had  no  poignant  sting.  It  was  pleas 
ant  to  know  that  his  kinsfolk  were  credit 
able. 

"  How  about  the  son  ?"  he  queried,  briskly. 
"  Is  he  distinguished  and  literary  too  ?" 

A  shade  of  reserve  crept  into  the  girl's 
manner  at  once  ;  her  face  chilled,  and  she 
followed  the  movements  of  the  goldfish,  dart 
ing  about  the  floating  bread-crumbs,  assid 
uously  with  her  glance. 

"  The  son  is  away  most  of  the  time,"  she 
answered,  non-committally.  "  He  is  a  mining- 
engineer,  and  his  field  of  work  lies  else 
where." 

St.  John  looked  at  her  curiously,  feeling 
suddenly  confident  that  a  little  investigation 
along  this  line  might  develop  matter  of  in 
terest.  Inquiries  burned  on  his  tongue,  but 


85 


there  was  that  in  the  girl's  manner  which 
caused  him  to  restrain  his  curiosity,  and  to 
remember  that  their  acquaintance  was  acci 
dental,  and  should  not  be  made  the  means  of 
pushing  the  young  lady  into  a  false  position. 
Why  should  she,  an  outsider,  be  entrapped 
into  telling  a  man  discreditable  tales — if  such 
there  should  be  —  about  his  own  kindred? 
Clearly  she  had  no  intention  of  being  so  en 
trapped,  and  he  respected  both  her  acumen 
and  reticence.  But  all  the  same,  he  promptly 
decided  that  this  young  Lawless  must  be  a 
mauvais  sujet. 

In  the  pause  which  followed  the  closing  of 
the  subject  of  the  son,  Judy  picked  up  the 
father's  letter.  She  was  not  devoid  of  curi 
osity  herself. 

"  Am  I  to  read  this  ?"  she  questioned. 

St.  John  was  thinking  how  prettily  his 
companion's  hair  curled  around  her  small  ear, 
and  how  gracious  were  the  curves  with  which 
her  chin  melted  into  her  round  throat. 
Caught  in  the  act,  with  admiration  in  his 
eyes,  he  gladly  took  refuge  in  the  letter,  as 
suring  the  girl  with  empressement  that  he 
would  joy  to  have  her  read  it. 


86 


"  It's  a  very  nice  letter,"  he  affirmed.  "  An 
exceptionally  nice  letter,  when  one  remem 
bers  that  the  kind  old  boy  has  never  seen 
me." 

Judy  thought  so  likewise,  and  voiced  the 
sentiment. 

"  Underneath  the  surface  cordiality  there  is 
a  shy  tenderness  which  is  captivating,"  she 
declared.  "  How  very  fond  he  seems  to  have 
been  of  your  father.  Do  you  resemble  him 
at  all  ? — your  father,  I  mean.  It  will  be  a  good 
point  of  departure  if  you  do.  You're  very 
like  Colonel  Lawless  himself.  Any  one  might 
think  you  his  son." 

The  slight  emphasis  on  the  pronoun  put 
St.  John's  newly  enlisted  resolutions  to 
flight. 

"Isn't  his  son  like  him?"  he  queried. 

«  No." 

She  returned  the  letter  to  its  envelope,  and 
restored  it  to  him,  smiling  curiously.  St. 
John  felt  exasperated,  and  with  reason. 

"  You'll  get  on  with  your  uncle,  perhaps," 
she  nodded. 

"  Why,  perhaps  ?"  very  sulkily.  "  Is  he  so 
uncommonly  difficult  ?" 


"  Most  uncommonly,"  laughing  up  at  him. 
"  He's  a  man  of  colossal  prejudices.  Many 
people  can't  get  on  with  him  at  all." 

"  Who,  for  instance  3" 

"  My  father,  for  one.  The  relations  be 
tween  the  two  are  strained  to  freezing  cour 
tesy  and  immeasurable  distance.  It's  a  pity  ; 
for  the  people  over  there,"  nodding  in  the  di 
rection  of  Marsh  Mallow,  "  are  our  nearest 
neighbors,  and  Anita  Mejares  and  her  husband 
are  charming." 

The  new  inmate  for  Marsh  Mallow  felt  that 
it  was  more  than  a  pity — that  it  was  unrea 
sonable,  almost  childish.  "  What's  the  trouble 
between  the  old  boys?"  he  disrespectfully 
demanded. 

Judy  sprang  to  her  feet,  laughing. 
"  Burning  questions,"  she  mocked  ;  "  vital 
interests — matters  that  stir  the  souls  of  men  ! 
My  father  is  of  French  extraction;  your  uncle, 
the  British  lion  incarnate !  My  father  was  a 
United  States  officer ;  your  uncle,  a  Confed 
erate  !  What  more  would  you  ?" 

She  moved  towards  the  house,  smiling  back 
at  him  over  her  shoulder.  And  St.  John  fol 
lowed,  greatly  amused,  and  also  not  a  little 


perplexed  by  the  new  elements  which  seemed 
spreading  out  around  him. 

"Cross-currents  and  eddies  all  about,"  he 
inwardly  commented  ;  "  tides  uncertain,  and 
a  foul  point  or  two  to  weather,  maybe.  That's 
all  right,  and  a  fellow  can  look  out  for  'em. 
I'll  get  in  a  bit  of  sailing  in  company  with 
the  little  craft  ahead  while  I'm  down  here 
though,  or  my  name  isn't  Clere  St.  John." 


IV 


ST.  JOHN  had  been  'domiciled  at  Marsh 
Mallow  for  a  week,  and,  to  use  his  own  phrase, 
found  himself  "  very  satisfied."  The  patriar 
chal  life  amid  flocks  and  herds  and  a  limitless 
environment,  which  is  after  all  the  natural 
life  of  man,  suited  him.  He  cared  for  it  all — 
the  riding  after  the  cattle,  the  administration 
of  pastoral  affairs,  the  dignity  of  a  life  apart, 
the  space  for  individual  development,  the 
quaint  domestic  leisureliness  and  freedom. 

The  old  house  pleased  him  also;  rested 
and  refreshed  his  artistic  taste,  jaded  and 
worn  by  crude  aggressiveness  and  spick-and- 
span  newness.  It  fitted  in  harmoniously  with 
the  architectural  background  of  his  memory, 
and  made  him  realize  as  he  had  never  done 
before  that  this  virile  continent  is  old  and 
storied  like  the  rest.  More :  that  its  history 
and  civilization  antedates  by  many  cycles  that 
day  of  grace  whereon  Columbus  persuaded 


10 


Isabella  of  Spain  to  part  with  her  jewels  for 
the  god-mothering  of  his  venture. 

Like  the  neighboring  hacienda,  Marsh 
Mallow  was  one-storied  and  rambling.  Like 
it,  also,  it  was  roofed  with  glazed  red  tiles, 
fire-burned  by  some  lost  method.  Its  adobe 
walls,  hard  as  friable  stone,  were  many  feet  in 
thickness,  and  its  casements  were  wide  and 
latticed.  The  central  courtyard,  common  to 
Spanish-Mexican  houses,  in  this  instance,  was 
uncommonly  spacious,  and  flagged  with  rock 
from  the  neighboring  canon.  Its  archway 
was  also  of  stone,  and  boasted  carving  such 
as  may  be  seen  at  the  missions  about  San 
Antonio,  and  also  a  pair  of  folding  gates  of 
hand-wrought  copper,  said  to  have  been 
brought  from  the  interior  of  Mexico  by  a  de 
scendant  of  the  conquistadorcs.  They  were 
green  with  age  and  damp,  those  gates,  and 
no  longer  closed  with  accuracy,  but,  in  them 
selves,  were  works  of  art  as  well  as  historic 
monuments.  All  the  color-values  of  the  place 
— its  wealth  of  reds,  yellows,  browns,  and 
greens,  with  a  thousand  intermediate  shades 
— were  toned  to  rich  perfection,  and  subtly 
blended  into  soft  true  harmonies. 


41 


The  picturcsqucness  of  the  edifice,  as  well 
as  its  aspect  of  antiquity,  was  enhanced  by  a 
dark  mantling  of  vines — English  ivy  and  Vir 
ginia  creeper — which  clung  to  the  walls  and 
angles,  and  even  cast  embracing  arms  across 
the  tiles.  To  St.  John,  the  presence  of  the 
ivy  gave  just  the  touch  of  home  and  old  asso 
ciation  which  is  requisite  to  make  a  habita 
tion  seem  at  one  with  its  occupants.  It  was 
an  actual  disappointment  to  him  to  learn  that 
it  had  not  been  brought  direct  from  England. 

"It's  Colonial  English,"  Mrs.  Mejares  ex 
plained.  "  The  old  homestead  in  Virginia 
was  covered  with  it,  and,  when  we  came  out 
here,  the  padre  brought  with  him  the  ivy  roots, 
and  also  those  of  the  Virginia  creeper.  That 
last  was  a  point  of  sentiment  also  ;  my  mother 
was  a  Virginian." 

"  Did  your  mother  come  out  with  you  ?" 
St.  John  asked,  gently. 

He  knew  that  his  uncle  had  been  many 
years  alone. 

Mrs.  Mejares'  bright  face  clouded.  "  Poor 
padre!  No,  she  died  at  home.  'Twas  this 
\vay  —  very  sad,  you  know,  and  difficult  to 
bear.  There  was  hard  fighting  in  the  valley 


i.1 


of  Virginia,  and  my  father  was  away  at  the 
front.  Our  Lome  was  in  middle  Virginia, 
and  we  were  left  alone  there  with  the  negroes. 
My  mother  managed  the  plantation  and  eared 
for  my  brother  Tom  and  myself,  botli  chil 
dren.  One  day  our  house  was  surrounded 
by  Federal  riders.  I  can  well  remember  it — 
the  confusion  of  uniformed  men  and  strange 
horses.  Our  own  negroes  went  about  with 
alien  looks,  and  many  of  them  fraternized 
with  the  enemy.  The  house  was  rifled  from 
garret  to  cellar,  many  of  the  outer  offices 
burned,  and  the  growing  crops  devastated.  It 
was  terrible.  Tom  had  a  colt  he  was  fond  of, 
and  when  they  led  it  out  and  saddled  it,  he 
interfered,  claiming  the  animal,  and  disput 
ing  any  man's  right  to  touch  it.  lie  was  only 
seven  years  old,  and  high-tempered ;  he  felt 
himself  robbed,  and  stormed  and  raged  about 
it.  The  man  who  had  taken  the  colt  laughed 
at  first;  then,  wearied  of  the  boy's  persist 
ence,  struck  at  him  with  the  flat  of  his  sabre. 
My  mother  was  standing  near,  and,  to  save 
her  child,  sprang  forward.  I  don't  know  how 
really  it  happened ;  whether  the  blow  fell  on 
her  and  knocked  her  down,  or  whether  the 


colt  frightened  and  pushed  against  her — only 
that  she  got  a  heavy  fall  some  way,  and  that 
it  killed  her.  Ay  de  mi!  It  was  a  sad  day  !" 

This  story,  so  briefly  outlined,  gave  St.  John 
a  glimpse  into  the  arcana  of  an  animosity 
which,  to  his  outside  view,  had  seemed  un 
reasonable.  With  the  flight  of  years  should 
have  come  mitigation  of  offence,  if  not  abso 
lute  placidity,  St.  John  thought,  unconsciously 
assuming  that  his  own  standpoint  must  neces 
sarily  be  that  of  every  other  Englishman  on 
the  Western  Continent.  To  St.  John,  Amer 
icans  were  Americans  without  geographical 
difference.  This  story  gave  him  another 
point  of  view,  and  enabled  him  to  realize 
how  his  uncle  might  hold  himself  justified  in 
differentiating,  and  also  in  cherishing  prej 
udices.  He  had  suffered  with  one  side,  by 
and  through  the  other. 

Still,  it  did  seem  a  pity  that  old  issues  should 
overlay  and  dominate  new  ones.  Judith 
Fontaine  could  be  guilty  of  neither  political 
nor  military  misdemeanors,  and  it  was  really 
outrageous  that  social  intercourse  should  be 
barred  with  her.  St.  John  felt  his  instinct  of 
fair-play  revolt.  Judy  had,  in  their  brief  in- 


14 


tercourse,  attracted  him  more  than  any  woman 
he  had  ever  met,  in  a  like  space  of  time ;  his 
instant  and  cordial  acceptance  at  the  neigh 
boring  hacienda  had  pleased  his  self-love  also, 
and  altogether  he  was  minded  to  continue  the 
acquaintance.  But  for  these  outside  compli 
cations,  how  jolly  it  would  be !  His  cousin, 
Mrs.  Mejares,  to  whom  he  had  taken  an  im 
mense  liking,  because,  in  an  indefinable  way, 
and  despite  her  pretty  semi-Spanish  affecta 
tions,  she  reminded  him  of  his  sister  Maud, 
would,  he  felt  convinced,  lend  herself  readily 
to  social  projects.  It  was  very  provoking. 

He  had  incidentally  mentioned  his  uncon 
ventional  stoppage  at  the  Fontaine  hacienda 
the  very  afternoon  of  his  arrival  at  Marsh 
Mallow,  but  nobody  seemed  interested,  so 
that  he  had  refrained  from  details.  Indeed,  in 
these  first  few  days  the  talk  had  been  mostly 
personal,  or  else  reminiscent. 

Like  most  men  who  are  well  past  middle 
life,  Colonel  Lawless  was  returning,  in  thought 
and  interest,  to  the  people  and  events  which 
had  filled  his  youth.  England  and,  above  all, 
Devonshire,  with  its  associations,  had  ranged 
up  close  again,  and  become  vital.  In  round- 


ing  his  course  to  the  finish,  the  old  veteran's 
anchor,  in  a  spiritual  sense,  seemed  in  truth 
to  fall  "  where  first  his  pennons  flew."  The 
companionship  of  a  man  of  his  own  blood,  a 
man  reared  amid  the  traditions,  customs,  and 
surroundings  which  had  nurtured  him,  was  a 
keen  joy  to  Colonel  Lawless,  and  the  more 
that,  in  the  sanctuary  of  his  British  soul,  he 
was  compelled  to  admit  that  his  children 
were  alien  in  thought  as  in  birth.  It  was 
natural,  even  inevitable;  but  the  knowledge 
that  they  were  not  Britons  girded  him  at 
times. 

"Aye,  lad,"  he  would  say,  cherishing  his 
snowy  whiskers,  "  it's  a  rare  joy  to  chat  with  a 
man  who  knows  old  Dartmoor !  Saw  you  ever 
such  purple  heather,  or  such  golden  whin  as 
grows  about  Great  Cawsand  ?  Or  a  ridge 
more  bold  to  its  size  than  Yestor  where  it 
lifts  itself  up  black  against  the  western  sky, 
and  throws  shadows  athwart  the  waste  of 
rocks  at  its  foot  ?  There's  magnificence  and 
gloom  enough  in  some  of  those  northern 
passes  of  Dartmoor  to  content  any  scenery- 
lover,  without  crossing  seas  for  canons  and 
such  in  the  Rockies.  I  mind  well  how  your 


father  and  I  used  to  fish  in  the  Taw  when 
I'd  come  down  for  the  long  from  Eton.  A 
plucky  little  chap  he  was,  six  years  my  junior, 
and  many's  the  royal  day  we've  had  hearken 
ing  to  the  lazy  water  crawling  around  the 
rocks  that  choke  its  bed,  and  waiting  for  the 
fish  to  rise.  There  were  stones  in  the  stream 
so  balanced  that  the  motion  of  the  stream 
would  make  them  cluck — cluck  like  an  angry 
Langshang — and  we  boys  used  to  pretend 
'twas  the  nixies  grumbling  together  and  warn 
ing  the  fish  against  us.  Lord !  I  can  hear 
the  chicking  of  the  stone -chat  now,  and  the 
scream  of  the  golden  plover.  Then  how  the 
wind  used  to  rush  through  tor  and  crag,  and 
bring  to  mind  the  gammers'  tales  of  storm- 
elves  and  wailing  banshee !  Ah,  man  !  there's 
no  place  like  England,  after  all,  to  the  folks 
born  there.  And  of  all  fair  England,  to  my 
mind  the  fairest  bit  is  Devonshire." 

And  yet,  when  cornered,  he  would  admit 
that  this  great  Southwestern  "divide"  of 
the  so-called  New  World  was  a  good  place 
enough  —  a  prosperous,  wealthy  land,  with 
room  for  all  and  a  chance  for  every  man  to 
live  out  his  life  manfully,  and  show  the  stuff 


17 


that  is  in  him.  Sitting  in  the  saddle  on 
some  prairie  knoll  and  letting  his  eyes  wan 
der  over  the  miles  of  rolling  plain  covered 
with  gray-green  mesquite  and  buffalo  grass 
which  owned  him  lord,  and  watching  the 
cattle  string  out  into  grazing  lines,  or  club 
together  in  bunches,  the  old  soldier  was  fain 
to  confess  that  he  had  come  to  good  camp 
ing-ground,  and  that  peace  and  plenty  were 
his  in  abundance.  Then,  because  he  was  hu 
man  and  therefore  only  intermittently  grateful, 
he  would  bring  his  glance  back  to  his  nephew's 
face  and  forget  it  all  in  yearning  for  the 
green  of  Hatherleigh  Meadows,  and  the  purl 
of  the  trout  stream  meandering  through  them. 
To  that  part  of  his  life  spent  in  Virginia 
and  culminating  in  the  tragedy  of  the  Civil 
War,  Colonel  Lawless  rarely  alluded.  There 
are  years  in  a  man's  life — those  big  with  love, 
happiness,  disaster,  or  death,  those  holding 
the  very  pith  and  marrow  of  existence — which 
seem  too  sacred  for  ordinary  mention.  They 
are  held  apart  in  their  own  sanctuary  and 
approached  with  bared  head  and  unshod 
feet.  Even  with  this  man  of  his  own  race, 
who  had  played  amid  the  graves  in  the 


churchyard  of  his  own  native  village  and  had 
been  carried  under  the  same  lychgate  for 
christening  at  the  same  font,  the  old  soldier 
had  reserves. 

But  that  thoso  years  in  Virginia  held  him 
with  a  grip  of  strength  St.  John  speedily  had 
demonstration. 

Their  ride,  one  forenoon,  took  them  in  a 
new  direction,  and  Colonel  Lawless,  an  en 
thusiastic  geologist,  called  the  attention  of 
his  guest  to  those  strange  cracks  and  fissures 
with  which  the  prairie  is  serrated.  Some 
times  they  seemed  only  a  few  feet  deep,  and 
could  be  readily  jumped  by  a  horse,  while  in 
other  places  they  were  clear,  stiff  gashes, 
yawning  sheer  and  verdureless  to  a  consider 
able  depth.  Through  one  of  these  cuts, 
wide  enough  at  bottom  to  accommodate  a 
pony  trail,  they  took  their  way,  keenly  inter 
ested  in  examining  its  formation,  which  was 
new  to  St.  John,  and  in  observing  the  various 
strata  laid  bare  in  the  abrupt  walls.  The 
Colonel  rose  to  the  occasion  with  every  one 
of  his  pet  theories,  and  enjoyed  himself  as 
only  an  amateur  scientist  can  with  an  appre 
ciative  but  unlearned  audience. 


After  a  bit,  the  gulch  cornered  into  a 
canon  of  depth  and  spaciousness  whose  rai- 
son  d'etre  lay  in  the  presence  of  a  stream  of 
water  which  gurgled  and  bubbled,  amid 
rocks  and  luxuriant  masses  of  vegetation, 
through  its  midst.  Here  the  Colonel  was 
swift  to  call  attention  to  the  difference  in  the 
appearance  of  a  gorge  whose  cleavage  force 
had  been  water,  the  gentler  and  more  gradual 
descent  of  the  walls,  the  marks  of  the  vari 
ous  water  levels,  and  the  harmonious  trend 
of  the  erosion. 

"  You  should  talk  with  my  boy  Tom  about 
such  things,"  he  observed,  as  they  paused  to 
let  the  horses  drink  at  a  water-hole.  "  He's 
a  better  hand  than  I  at  getting  the  results  of 
observation  into  language — has  the  American 
gift  of  speech,  and  of  epigrammatic  illus 
tration.  He's  nimbler  on  his  pins,  more 
over,  and  can  scramble  about  to  better  pur 
pose.  He's  a  clever  lad,  is  Tom.  Your 
father's  namesake,  as  you  are  mine.  You 
two  should  know  each  other." 

St.  John  cordially  seconded  the  sugges 
tion,  inquiring,  in  addition,  whether  there 
was  any  possibility  of  his  kinsman's  return  to 


60 


Marsh  Mallow  within  a  reasonable  limit  of 
time. 

The  Colonel's  face  gloomed  over  at  once. 

"  Hardly  a  possibility,"  he  admitted,  re 
luctantly.  "It's  a  pity,  too,  for  I'd  like 
well  to  bring  you  lads  together.  The  truth 
is,  Clere,  this  region  is  hateful  to  Tom  just 
now.  He  came  a  nasty  cropper  hereaway, 
and  it's  shaken  him,  and  put  him  wrong. 
He's  better  away  for  a  while,  poor  lad." 

"  Through  a  woman  ?"  St.  John  ventured. 

The  Colonel  nodded,  and  reined  into  the 
trail  again.  He  volunteered  no  details,  nor 
did  his  nephew  press  the  matter.  A  trouble 
engendered  by  love  should  be  treated  with 
delicacy  and  reserve. 

Talking,  therefore,  of  other  things,  they 
zigzagged  up  the  slope  of  the  canon  and 
came  out  on  a  ridge  from  which  the  prairie 
sloped  away,  without  unseemly  haste,  in 
long,  slow  undulations.  Here  they  paused 
to  breathe  the  horses  and  look  to  their  cinch 
es,  slackened  by  the  climb.  Away  in  the  dis 
tance  St.  John  beheld  with  pleasure"  the  Fon 
taine  hacienda,  set  like  a  jewel  of  color  and 
brightness  amid  the  dull  gray  of  the  plains. 


51 


He  reverted  at  once  to  his  visit,  and  with 
considerable  animation.  The  Colonel  listened 
impassively. 

"  What  sort  of  man  is  Fontaine  ?"  St.  John 
questioned,  at  length.  "  He  was  away  at  a 
round-up,  so  I  didn't  meet  him." 

"  As  to  person,  you  mean  ?" 

"  All  around." 

"  He's  a  handsome  fellow — tall,  dignified, 
and  all  that.  Was  a  volunteer  during  the 
war,  and  saw  hard  service.  Distinguished 
himself  on  the  field,  I  believe,  and  won  his 
straps.  His  manners  are  good,  and  a  trifle 
ornate — an  inheritance,  I  take  it,  from  his 
Gallic  grandsires.  He  comes  of  a  Huguenot 
family  that  originally  settled  in  Delaware." 

The  Colonel  quit  himself  of  this  informa 
tion  with  an  air  of  rendering  painstaking 
justice. 

"How  'd  they  get  out  here?"  St.  John 
wanted  to  know  in  addition. 

"  Easily  enough.  Fontaine  pere  was  an 
army  man  likewise — only  regular,  a  gradu 
ate  of  West  Point.  He  was  stationed  here 
during  the  Mexican  troubles,  and  either  fell 
in  love  with  the  country  or  was  long-headed 


enough  to  foresee  the  southwestern  influx. 
He  bought  that  ranch  —  twenty  thousand 
acres — from  a  dissatisfied  don  who  wanted 
to  live  and  die  under  the  flag  of  Mexico.  He 
kept  an  agent  here  during  his  life,  and  none 
of  his  family  have  ever  lived  in  Texas  except 
this  son,  who  settled  here  after  the  war,  and 
a  daughter,  Mrs.  Lestrange.  I  don't  even 
know  whether  there  were  more  children. 
That  hacienda  is  older  than  Marsh  Mallow, 
I  believe,  although  it  don't  look  it,  and  the 
courtyard  entrance  is  not  nearly  so  fine.  My 
place  was  built  by  a  different  set  of  hidal 
gos,  and,  tradition  says,  was  started  for  a 
mission.  You  should  get  Luis  Mejarcs  to 
tell  you  the  story.  It's  worth  hearing." 

But  St.  John  was  not  to  be  diverted  from 
his  own  point  of  interest. 

"  You  probably  see  a  good  deal  of  the  Fon 
taines,  being  such  near  neighbors,"  he  ob 
served,  with  diplomatic  intention. 

The  Colonel  laughed. 

"There  you're  mistaken,  my  lad,"  quoth 
he.  "The  families  see  next  to  nothing  of 
each  other,  and  the  less  the  better,  to  my 
notion.  We've  nothing  in  common  in  the 


59 


present,  and  armed  hostility  in  the  past. 
Henry  Fontaine  is  a  Yankee  —  dyed  in  the 
bone;  and  his  daughter — "  He  paused, 
and  his  eyes  flashed. 

St.  John  felt  suddenly  and  unaccountably 
nettled. 

"  Well,  what  of  his  daughter  ?"  he  interro 
gated,  sharply. 

"  She's  the  most  infernal  flirt  in  Texas — 
that  is  all,"  growled  the  Colonel. 


ST.  JOHN'S  anger  cooled  as  suddenly  as  it 
had  flamed  up.  Never  having  been  flirted 
with,  or  even  actively  in  love,  he  could  re 
gard  the  question  abstractly  and  debate  about 
it.  Flirtation  in  woman,  he  argued,  might 
be  classified  as  a  natural  instinct — the  sport 
ing  instinct — a  trifle  off  color,  because  of  the 
hypocrisy  involved.  In  men,  of  course,  flir 
tation  was  abominable,  caddish  at  all  times, 
and,  under  certain  circumstances,  villanous. 
Their  sporting  instincts  had  other  and  more 
legitimate  outlets,  from  which  women  were 
debarred.  To  rail  at  an  attractive,  high-spir 
ited  woman  for  flirtation,  to  St.  John,  seemed 
as  futile  as  to  fall  foul  of  a  playful  kitten  for 
gamboling  with  a  mouse.  He  thought  none 
the  worse  of  Judy  for  his  uncle's  blunt  ac- 
cusal,  but  he  wondered  how  she  could  have 
managed  to  touch  up  the  old  gentleman  so 


56 


sharply,  seeing  that  all  neighborly  intercourse 
had  been  disclaimed. 

Later  he  found  out  the  inwardness  of  the 
matter  from  his  cousin's  husband,  Senor  Luis 
Mejares. 

The  library  and  work-room  of  the  novelist, 
a  cheery,  comfortable  apartment,  opened  on 
the  outer  gallery  with  broad  lattices,  set  with 
quaint  little  panes  of  stained  glass.  The  floors 
were  on  a  level,  so  that  Mejares  had  no  diffi 
culty  in  whirling  away  from  his  desk  and 
sending  his  wheeled  chair  through  the  portal 
and  along  the  gallery  whenever  dominated  by 
the  restless  impulse  which  lifts  sound  men  to 
their  feet  and  sets  them  tramping  about  with 
their  hands  behind  them.  During  these  pere 
grinations  he  was  very  approachable.  St. 
John  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  joining  him 
and  lending  a  hand  with  the  chair.  The  pair 
got  on  well  together,  the  pluck  and  patience 
of  the  more  gifted  man,  under  physical  in 
firmity,  begetting  in  the  less  gifted  man  a 
sense  of  kinship  and  nearness,  quickening 
his  appreciation  of  brilliant  intellectual  en 
dowments  and  a  growing  fame  with  warm 
throbs  of  personal  liking. 


"  He's  a  capital  fellow,  Mejares,"  he  ob 
served  to  his  uncle  with  friendly  frankness  a 
day  or  so  after  his  arrival.  "Jolly,  and 
straightforward,  and  simple  as  a  child.  I 
thought  swell  authors  were  generally  a  bit 
cocky,  but  Mejares  isn't." 

"  That  depends  on  their  quality,"  the  Colo 
nel  responded  astutely.  "  The  same  laws  oper 
ate  in  literary  as  in  social  life  ;  the  Brumma 
gem  fellows,  uplifted,  swagger  and  brag, 
while  the  princes  of  the  blood,  being  born  to 
exaltation,  take  it  quietly.  When  a  little  suc 
cess  converts  a  clever  fellow  into  an  arrogant 
ass,  you  may  be  sure  there's  asses'  blood  in 
his  veins.  The  big  geniuses  are  gentlemen  in 
the  fullest  sense  of  the  word.  Legs  are  tre 
mendously  convenient,  there's  no  denying 
that ;  but,  by  George,  sir  !  there  are  things 
about  a  man  that  outweigh  a  sound  body  ! 
And  my  Anne's  husband  is  a  millionaire  in 
the  real  values." 

In  this  dictum  St.  John  acquiesced  with 
perfect  cordiality.  He  liked  his  cousin  Anne 
sufficiently  to  make  it  a  distinct  pleasure  to 
be  able  to  like  her  husband  as  well.  Follow 
ing  his  uncle's  example,  he  refrained  from 


57 


softening  Mrs.  Mejares'  Saxon  patronymic 
into  the  pretty  Spanish  diminutive  affected 
by  her  husband.  He  had  a  shy  sort  of  feel 
ing  that  in  him  it  would  seem  overt  familiar 
ity.  There  were  subtle  reserves  about  St. 
John. 

With  Colonel  Lawless  the  name  in  its  sim 
plicity  was  dearest.  It  had  been  that  of  his 
wife. 

Coming  in  from  his  ride  St.  John  found 
Mejares  on  the  gallery,  and  joined  him. 
"  How  are  the  legs  ?"  he  inquired,  cordially, 
as  they  shook  hands. 

Mejares  was  subject  to  acute  neuralgia  in 
his  afflicted  members,  and,  for  a  couple  of 
days,  had  been  in  purgatory. 

"  Jumping  a  bit  still,"  the  novelist  replied, 
with  a  smile,  "  but  steadying  down.  They'll 
work  all  right  presently.  They  humped  them 
selves  and  bucked  like  demons  about  day 
break,  which  rather  threw  my  day's  work  out. 
Since  noon  I've  been  '  playing  ladies,'  as  the 
children  say.  Stop  a  bit  and  talk  to  me. 
Which  way  did  you  ride  ?" 

St.  John  laid  hold  of  the  back  of  the  chair, 
pushing  it  slowly. 


f>s 


"  The  new  bull  has  arrived,"  he  answered, 
"  and  is  np  in  the  old  corral  with  a  few  out 
side  head  to  get  acquainted.  We  rode  out  to 
see  him,  and  afterwards  circled  about  the 
prairie  a  bit." 

"  What  sort  of  a  beast  is  he  ?" 

"  A  very  pretty  beast ;  fine  in  the  flank, 
deep  in  the  brisket,  back  like  a  table,  pasterns 
clean,  and  hoofs  like  onyx.  He's  Devon, 
every  inch  of  him.  Uncle  Clere  got  quite 
sentimental  over  him.  Odd,  how  the  old  boy 
clings  to  home  after  all  these  years  of  expa 
triation  !  One  would  think  that  the  new  in 
terests  would  have  weaned  him." 

Mejares  laughed. 

" '  What's  bred  in  the  bone  comes  out  in  the 
flesh,'"  quoth  he,  amusedly.  "  The  padre,  lias 
never  even  been  naturalized,  although  he's 
held  property  here  ever  since  he  came  over, 
and  borne  arms  for  the  Confederacy.  He's  a 
red-hot  rebel,  too,  and  touchy  as  a  bear  with  a 
sore  head  about  the  late  war.  Haven't  you 
noticed  it?" 

St.  John  nodded.  Then,  with  the  air  of  one 
confessing  to  a  sentiment,  he  said:  "  I  haven't 
been  naturalized  either.  Been  here  twelve 


59 


years,  too,  and  may  stay  the  balance  of  my 
life.  Somehow  I  can't  get  my  consent  to 
giving  up  the  old  country  formally.  It  goes 
against  me." 

"  That's  what  the  padre  says.  You  two  are 
ridiculously  alike — chips  from  the  same  oak 
block.  Now  my  wife  and  Tom  scarcely  show 
the  strain  at  all.  They  are  both  Americans." 

"  Anne  reminds  me  of  my  sister,"  observed 
St.  John.  "  There's  a  pose  of  the  head  and 
movement  of  the  lips  that's  Maudie  all  over. 
Tell  me  about  Tom.  He  should  be  a  clever 
chap,  from  his  father's  account  of  him.  We 
rode  through  one  of  those  queer  cuts  in  the 
plain — the  one  that  elbows  into  a  canon. 
Uncle  Clere  was  directing  my  attention  to  the 
various  formation,  and  brought  in  Tom's 
name  ;  rather  crowing  of  his  scientific  at 
tainments,  you  know." 

Mejares  looked  thoughtful. 

"  Tom's  clever  enough,"  he  assented.  "  Too 
clever,  in  fact,  for  the  use  he  makes  of  it. 
'Tisn't  brains  Tom  lacks,  it's  ballast.  He's  a 
first-rate  geologist  and  mining  engineer — a 
first  honor  graduate  of  Freiburg,  and  ought 
to  be  well  on  the  road  to  success  and  distinc- 


00 


tion.  Instead  of  which  he's  fooling  away  his 
time  in  the  Sierras  with  a  lot  of  roughs,  with- 
•out  regular  position  or  employment,  or  even 
definite  aim.  Madre  de  Dios  !  It's  enough 
to  make  a  man  forswear  brains  to  ponder 
Tom !  lie  might  be  anything,  and  is  con 
tent  to  drivel.  It's  conservation  of  force  that 
tells,  and  Tom  " — he  lifted  his  shoulders  and 
spread  abroad  his  hands  with  a  gesture  which 
rounded  the  sentence. 

St.  John's  instinct  of  fair  play  caused  him 
to  put  in  a  word  for  the  absent  man. 

"His  university  record  seems  good,"  he 
suggested. 

"  Very  good,"  assented  Mejares.  "  That's 
what  frets  me.  If  he  could  make  a  start 
like  that,  he  could  hold  it.  It's  disgraceful 
to  peter  out  without  adequate  cause,  and 
Tom's  faculties  are  all  there.  Even  abroad 
he  was  wild,  though — wilder  than  the  padre 
ever  knew.  He  went  the  pace  for  a  while, 
plunged  at  Monte  Carlo  and  got  into  scrapes 
with  other  students.  One  side  of  his  face 
was  laid  open  in  a  university  row.  It  dis 
figures  him.  There  was  nothing  dishonor 
able  in  the  scrapes,  you  know,  only  woful 


81 


lack  of  consideration  and  self-restraint.  Tom's 
impulsive  and  hot-tempered;  flies  off  the 
handle  at  a  word,  sometimes  at  a  look.  Lots 
of  Virginians  are  so,  and  Tom  takes  after  his 
mother's  people.  He's  a  likable  fellow,  too. 
His  sister  adores  him." 

"  The  Colonel  intimated  that  he'd  come  a 
cropper  over  a  woman,"  observed  St.  John. 
"  That  sort  of  thing  lays  a  fellow  on  his 
back,  you  know — if  it  don't  smash  him  up 
entirely." 

"  Yes,  it  does,"  the  novelist  admitted. 
"But  Tom" — he  paused,  meditatively — "I'd 
like  to  know  the  woman's  side  of  the  affair.'' 

"  Who  is  the  woman  ?" 

"  Our  little  neighbor  yonder — Judith  Fon 
taine." 

"  No  !" 

"  Fact,  I  assure  you." 

"  But  I  understand  there  was  no  inter 
course  between  the  families." 

"  There  isn't.  The  Fontaines  tried  to  be 
friendly  at  first,  but  the  padre's  aspect  was 
that  of  one  who  turneth  away  his  ear,  and 
his  countenance  was  bitter.  When  advances 
were  made,  his  manner  proclaimed  '  Lo !  an 


enemy  hath  done  this.7  So  the  Fontaines, 
not  unnaturally,  became  discouraged.  Tom 
met  the  young  lady  first  in  San  Antonio,  at 
the  graduating  exercises  of  her  school,  and 
then  followed  her  to  Galveston,  where  she 
went  to  visit  her  aunt.  He  was  fairly  crazed 
about  her.  Poor  Tom  !  Nobody  knows  the 
details  of  the  affair,  save  those  most  con 
cerned  ;  not  even  Anita,  although  Tom  has 
few  reserves  from  his  sister.  AVe  only  know 
that,  about  a  year  ago,  there  must  have  been 
a  flare-up,  and  that  Tom  has  been  acting 
vaquero  for  the  devil  ever  since." 


VI 


WHEN  men  are  holiday-making,  with  lei 
sure  of  mind  and  body,  the  happenings  of 
the  present  satisfy  them,  and  the  influence 
of  their  immediate  surroundings  becomes  para 
mount.  St.  John,  interested  by  the  stories 
told  of  Judith  Fontaine,  amused,  attracted, 
and  not  a  little  curious,  was  not  long  in  de 
ciding  that,  having  partaken  of  the  Fontaine 
hospitality,  it  behooved  him  to  make  ac 
knowledgment  of  the  same.  To  permit  prej 
udices  in  which  he  could  have  neither  part 
nor  lot  to  influence  him  to  a  breach  of  the 
social  amenities  would  be  ridiculous — an  over 
strain  of  deference — and  neither  as  relative 
nor  host  could  the  Colonel  require  it.  Al 
ready  he  had  been  derelict  in  allowing  a 
week  to  elapse  without  calling,  and  he  would 
brand  himself  boor  should  the  courtesy  be 
longer  delayed. 

The  morning  following  his  talk  with  Me- 


61 


jarcs,  therefore,  be  got  him  to  horse,  and 
cantered  away  through  the  sunshine  to  pay 
his  respects  to  the  ladies  of  the  neighboring 
hacienda. 

The  buoyancy  of  the  atmosphere  expanded 
his  lungs  and  set  his  blood  tingling  so  that 
he  longed  for  hurdles  to  jump,  or  stiffish 
fences  with  a  ditch  on  the  off-side.  He  in 
creased  his  pace  to  a  gallop,  and  circled 
about,  first  to  examine  some  queer  cacti, 
and  then  to  inspect  a  nasty  tumble-weed, 
big  as  a  cart-wheel,  and  lying  loose  in  a  buf 
falo  wallow,  awaiting  a  breeze  to  send  it 
bounding  on  its  evil  way.  He  was  glad  of 
the  chance  to  see  it,  for  the  Colonel  had  told 
him  the  day  before  that  this  pest  of  the 
prairies  was  getting  rare,  so  relentless  had 
been  the  settlers'  war  of  extermination  upon 
it.  The  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  gray-green 
sheen  of  the  prairie  dappled  darkly  where 
cloud  shadows  rested  ;  the  dim,  slow-moving 
masses  against  the  horizon,  like  waves  in 
an  offing,  which  he  knew  to  be  vast  herds 
of  cattle  at  graze ;  the  silence  of  it  all,  the 
vehement  vitality  everywhere  underlying  its 
somnolent  repression,  excited  his  imagina- 


69 


tion  like  wine,  and  set  him  to  speculating 
about  his  neighbors'  affairs,  and  to  dream 
ing  vague  dreams  begotten  of  friendliness 
and  inexperience. 

This  cousin  of  his — this  love-fevered  fel 
low  who,  in  default  of  his  inamorata,  was 
wooing  blind  folly — it  was  really  a  pity  about 
him.  What  if  he— Clere  St.  John — should 
constitute  himself  minister  extraordinary  to 
the  court  of  love,  with  self-invested  powers 
for  the  disentanglement  and  regulation  of 
this  affair  of  the  heart  ?  It  would  be  diver 
sion  of  the  most  delicate,  and  a  friendly 
thing  besides,  despite  his  uncle's  prejudices. 
And  in  truth,  what  prejudice  would  have  the 
ghost  of  a  chance  for  survival  if  subjected 
to  the  light  of  Judy's  eyes  or  the  charm  of 
her  witching  personality  ? 

This  thought  switched  him  off,  and  he 
quit  posing  before  himself  as  a  sentimental 
benefactor,  and  let  Tom  Lawless  drift  away 
out  of  sight  while  he  conjured  up  personal 
recollections  of  Judy. 

The  damsel,  meanwhile,  lay  at  ease  in  a 
hammock  on  the  outer  gallery,  clad  in  a 
charming  neglige  of  turquoise  India  silk, 


1,1, 


plcntcously  garnished  with  ribbons  and  lace. 
One  dainty  blue-stockinged  foot  was  in  evi 
dence,  with  the  kid  slipper  off  at  the  heel 
and  dangling  loosely,  as  the  ankle  was  wagged 
to  keep  the  hammock  in  motion.  She  had 
a  fresh  magazine  up  before  her  face,  and  was 
reading  aloud  a  most  wonderful  tale  of  Japan. 
Mrs.  Lestrange,  still  a  monument  of  woe  as 
to  garments,  sat  with  her  chair  turned  side 
ways,  so  as  to  face  the  reader,  and  sorted, 
on  her  sorrowful  lap,  embroidery  silks  of 
the  most  light-hearted  and  frivolous  hues. 
A  Maltese  cat  on  the  window-ledge  made 
her  toilet  with  assiduity,  and  a  handsome 
collie  pup  a  couple  of  months  old  sat  up 
right  on  his  haunches  beside  the  hammock, 
and  watched  the  swaying  slipper  with  mis 
chief  in  his  eyes. 

The  ladies  had  discussed  St.  John,  of 
course,  for  in  country  solitudes  even  the 
casual  appearance  of  an  interesting  stranger 
becomes  an  item  of  moment,  just  as  a  trivial 
happening  will  elevate  itself  into  an  event. 
They  had  decided  that  he  was  very  pleasant 
and  gentlemanly,  and  that  it  was  a  pity  they 
should  see  no  more  of  him.  Of  course  there 


(17 


could  be  no  calling  at  Marsh  Mallow  by  the 
male  representative  of  the  Fontaines,  for  the 
manner  in  which  Colonel  Lawless  had  met 
former  advances  had  proved  an  effectual  quie 
tus  to  neighborly  amenities. 

"And,"  quoth  Mrs.  Lestrange,  conclusively, 
"  if  the  stranger  within  the  gate  isn't  called 
upon  and  so  bidden  welcome,  he's  mighty 
apt  to  keep  himself  to  himself  during  the 
term  of  his  sojourn.  So  senseless  of  Colonel 
Lawless  to  take  this  ultra  stand  about  the 
war,  when  he  isn't  even  an  American,  and 
wouldn't  be  if  he  could.  I'd  just  as  well 
draw  a  line  about  the  War  of  the  Roses.  If 
he  were  a  Virginian  born,  or  a  Southerner 
of  any  sort,  it  wouldn't  be  so  ridiculous.  It 
wasn't  his  war." 

Which  was  doubtless  the  proper  stand 
point  from  which  to  regard  the  matter,  only, 
unfortunately,  men  cling  to  nonsensical  prej 
udices  much  tighter  than  to  things  able- 
bodied  with  wisdom.  And  an  adopted  quarrel 
is  often  nearer  to  the  heart  than  one  which 
comes  in  natural  sequence. 

It  was  therefore  a  surprise  as  well  as  a 
pleasure  to  behold  St.  John  ascend  the  gal- 


lery  steps,  with  his  hat  and  riding-crop  in 
one  hand,  and  the  other  extended  with  beam 
ing  cordiality.  Mrs.  Lestrange  permitted  her 
self  a  soft  Spanish  expletive  of  amazement, 
sotto  voce,  and  then  rose  to  welcome  him, 
jumbling,  with  one  hand,  her  nicely  sorted 
silks  into  confusion  again.  And  Judy  lifted 
herself  upright  in  the  hammock  so  suddenly 
that  her  slipper  fell  off,  and  was  instantly 
pounced  upon  by  the  puppy,  who  sped  off  with 
it,  utterly  indifferent  to  the  first  principle  of 
canine  duty,  which  is  to  stand  solid  and  bark 
at  a  stranger  until  ordered  to  desist. 

The  puppy  fled  along  the  gallery  hilari 
ously,  with  Judy  and  St.  John  both  in  pur 
suit.  When  they  divided  forces  so  as  to 
head  him  off,  he  curled  his  legs  under  him  and 
let  himself  roll  off  the  gallery,  alighted  on  a 
soft  bit  of  grass  right  side  up,  and  bound 
ed  away  to  a  rose  thicket,  with  intent  to 
there  ensconce  himself  with  his  prize  and 
chew  it  to  atoms.  St.  John  leaped  after  him, 
and  Judy  sat  herself  'down  on  the  gallery 
steps,  with  one  foot  tucked  under  her,  and 
laughed. 

In  a  moment  St.  John,  flushed  but  trium- 


phant,  returned,  holding  the  slipper  at  dif 
ferent  altitudes,  and  inciting  the  puppy — 
that  circled  around  him  in  a  succession  of 
jumps — to  have  at  it  again. 

"Nice  little  dog  that,"  he  announced,  cheer 
fully.  "  He  showed  his  teeth  and  growled 
finely  when  I  tweaked  the  slipper  away  ;  had 
to  be  boxed  smartly  to  make  him  drop  it,  too. 
But  he  bears  no  malice — eh,  doggalums?  See 
him  leap  for  it !  He  hasn't  hurt  it,  barring  a 
little  wetting  of  the  kid.  Here,  let  me  put  it 
on  for  you." 

He  knelt  on  a  lower  step  and  tilted  the 
shoe,  and  Judy,  with  a  manner  as  unembar 
rassed  as  his  own,  poked  out  a  dainty  little 
foot  from  beneath  her  skirts  and  submitted 
to  his  ministration.  The  puppy  looked  on 
with  his  head  cocked  on  one  side,  and  a 
world  of  speculation  in  his  eyes.  And  Mrs. 
Lestrange  bent  over  her  silks  with  a  smile  of 
great  subtlety. 

The  talk  naturally  started  from  St.  John's 
former  visit ;  and  the  subject  of  animals  be 
ing  for  the  moment  uppermost,  the  young 
man  inquired  the  fate  of  the  mule. 

"  I  looked  into  the  corral  just  before  start- 


ing,"  he  said,  "  and  saw  the  old  fellow  nod 
ding  in  the  sun  like  a  mandarin.  lie  looked 
pretty  " — he  paused,  with  a  laugh. 

"  lie  was"  assented  Judy,  "  just  as  much 
so  as  he  looked.  The  whiskey  flew  to  his 
head  and  settled.  After  your  departure,  I 
also  visited  my  patient.  He  was  down  by 
that  time— stretched  out  prone,  with  his  legs 
and  his  neck  made  the  most  of.  I  thought 
he  was  dead,  and  made  lamentation ;  but  he 
wasn't.  He  opened  one  eye  and  glowered 
at  me  groggily,  then  shut  it  up  again.  He 
was  sleeping  off  his  debauch.  Later  he 
staggered  up  and  went  for  some  water,  look 
ing  vague,  and  stepping  with  circumspection. 
He'd  a  splitting  headache,  too.  I  know  it 
because  the  sockets  over  his  eyes  puffed  in 
and  out,  and  moisture  beaded  his  brow.  He 
eschewed  food  likewise,  and  consumed  gallons 
of  water.  Poor  old  Dick !  'Twas  a  sad  ex 
perience  for  an  exemplary  mule  !  That  wasn't 
all,  either." 

"  What  else  ?"  smiled  St.  John. 

"  Much  ;  and  of  a  like  nature.  Misfortunes 
hunt  in  couples  and  packs,  as  that  mule  found 
to  his  sorrow.  He  was  the  victim  of  igno- 


71 


ranee  and  tenderness  of  heart.  The  men 
didn't  get  in  until  noon  the  next  day,  so  for 
many  hours  Nat  and  I  were  herdsmen  in 
charge.  I'd  distinguished  myself,  so  next 
morning  at  daybreak  Nat  tried  his  hand. 
He  had  heard  that  a  spree  could  be  com 
fortably  tapered  off  with  soda-water,  and 
feeling  sorry  for  Dick's  woe -begone  con 
dition,  he  undertook  to  compound  some  from 
the  house -keeping  supplies.  He  wouldn't 
wake  up  Carmelita  to  get  him  the  soda  box, 
but  undertook  to  rummage  the  kitchen  for 
himself,  and  the  consequence  was  that  that 
unhappy  mule  got  cooled  off  with  a  big  dose 
of  baking  powdfer." 

St.  John  shouted  with  laughter. 

"You  should  set  up  in  practice,  you  two," 
he  declared.  "  Such  reckless  self-confidence 
and  boldness  in  experiment  would  insure 
you  capital  success.  Is  the  beast  still  alive  ?" 

"Yes;  but  much  depraved  in  character. 
Our  treatment  affected  his  morals  disas 
trously,  and  only  yesterday  he  put  a  climax 
to  a  course  of  small  rebellions  by  kicking 
over  a  new  cutting-machine  and  injuring  it 
mortally.  This,  you  see,  is  a  tale  with  a 


moral.  I'm  thinking  of  sending  it  to  Senor 
Mcjarcs  to  get  into  shape  for  the  blue-ribbon 
people.  Will  you  give  it  to  him  ?" 

St.  John  laughed  again. 

"  You'll  have  to  hunt  up  another  chron 
icler,"  quoth  he.  "  Mejares  likes  a  glass  of 
wine  himself  upon  occasion." 

Then  Mrs.  Lestrange  asked  a  question  which 
drifted  the  conversation  away  to  St.  John's 
own  affairs,  and  he  expatiated  with  pleasure 
upon  the  reception  he  had  met  with  at  Marsh 
Mallow. 

"  It's  more  like  home  than  any  place  I've 
struck  in  the  States,"  he  explained,  eagerly. 
"  And  my  uncle's  a  dear  old  t>oy,  full  of  prej 
udices  and  conservatism,  but  loyal  and  ten 
der-hearted  under  it  all,  when  you  get  at  him 
right.  It  made  a  lump  in  my  throat  the  first 
time  he  got  talking  about  my  father  to  me, 
and  the  days  when  they  were  little  lads  in 
Devonshire.  I  don't  remember  much  about 
my  father  myself,  for  I  was  only  four  years 
old  when  he  died.  My  brother  and  sister  re 
member  him  better.  My  cousin  Anne  resem 
bles  my  sister  in  many  intangible  ways,  and 
I  really  like  her  immensely." 


73 


He  seemed  so  unaffectedly  pleased  to  put 
his  kindred  before  them  in  a  becoming  light, 
and  so  completely  ignored  all  strained  rela 
tions,  that  the  ladies  both  warmed  to  him,  and 
put  the  requisite  questions  with  a  fair  degree 
of  cordiality.  Their  interest  in  the  Marsh 
Mallow  household,  however,  clustered  most 
naturally  about  Luis  Mejares.  He  was,  in  a 
measure,  their  own ;  an  American,  even  as 
themselves,  and  doubly  their  own  in  being  a 
public  character.  They  spoke  of  his  work 
with  enthusiasm,  and  displayed  that  intimate 
knowledge  of  it  which  is  the  finest  possible 
tribute.  And  St.  John,  out  of  his  liking  for 
the  man,  drew  for  them  many  charming  pict 
ures  of  the  novelist's  home  life. 

Then  Judy,  at  her  aunt's  suggestion, 
brought  out  her  guitar  and  sang  for  him  a 
madrigal  of  Mejares'  composition,  in  a  voice 
which  vibrated  through  him  with  its  sweet 
ness.  As  she  sang,  his  expression  changed 
subtly,  softened,  grew  thoughtful,  and  touched 
to  a  finer  quality.  He  twisted  the  puppy's 
soft,  silken  ears  absently  through  his  fin 
gers,  and  when  the  girl  finished  gave  simple 
thanks,  unsupplemented  by  comment  or  praise. 


Judy  looked  at  him  shyly  through  her  lashes, 
and  met  his  eyes  and  was  satisfied.  And 
Mrs.  Lestrange,  her  silks  now  in  order,  smiled 
quietly,  and,  during  the  rest  of  the  call,  as 
sumed  the  burden  of  the  conversation. 


VII 


DURING  the  weeks  following,  St.  John  fell 
into  the  way  of  spending  a  good  deal  of  time 
at  the  Fontaine  hacienda.  His  uncle  was 
much  occupied  by  a  Mexican  lawsuit,  involv 
ing  the  title  to  some  property  owned  by  his 
son-in-law  over  the  border,  which  Mejares  was 
incapacitated  from  actively  looking  after  him 
self  by  an  unusually  acute  and  prolonged  at 
tack  of  neuralgic  rheumatism.  His  suffering 
was  intense,  confining  him  frequently  to  his 
bed,  and  his  wife's  time  and  thoughts  were 
filled  with  care  for  him,  to  the  exclusion  of 
everything  save  imperative  household  duties. 
St.  John  was  as  helpful  as  circumstances 
would  permit,  but  there  were  many  unoccu 
pied  hours  during  which  he  must  devise  his 
own  amusement,  and  this  he  found  quite 
ready  to  his  hand  in  the  society  of  Judy  Fon 
taine. 

With  the  Marsh  Mallow  stud  at  his  dis- 


posal,  the  eight  -  miles  ride  dwindled  to  a 
mere  breather  for  horse  and  man  ;  and  in 
addition  to  his  regular  visits  he  would  often 
encounter  Judy  in  her  rides,  and  the  pair 
would  have  long  scampers  together,  to  their 
mutual  satisfaction  and  St.  John's  undoing. 

Of  her  father,  Captain  Fontaine,  the  young 
man  saw  relatively  little,  for  the  ranch  was  a 
large  one,  and  the  vaqucros  required  a  good 
deal  of  looking  after.  St.  John's  visits  were 
paid  at  off  hours,  and  he  would  never  dine  at 
the  hacienda,  alleging  as  a  reason  that  in  the 
evenings  he  could  make  himself  useful  at 
home,  and  give  his  cousin  Anne  a  rest ;  be 
sides  which,  at  that  time,  his  uncle  would  be 
at  leisure  and  want  to  talk  to  him.  In  pleas 
ing  himself,  St.  John  had  always  a  just  ap 
preciation  of  the  legitimate  -claims  of  others. 
He  had  met  Captain  Fontaine,  of  course,  and 
considered  him  a  wonderfully  fine  specimen 
of  physical  manhood,  with  an  exceptional 
charm  of  manner,  lie  did  not  share  Judy's 
enthusiasm  for  her  father  in  even  a  remote 
degree,  but  he  was  sufficiently  impressed  with 
the  gentleman's  attractions  to  wonder  at  his 
twenty  years'  connubial  abstinence. 


77 


One  day,  when  they  were  riding  together, 
he  rather  astonished  Judy  by  bluntly  broach 
ing  the  subject. 

"  It  seems  queer  that  your  father  never 
married  a  second  time,  Miss  Fontaine,"  he  ob 
served.  "He's  a  wonderfully  attractive  man, 
and  his  age  doesn't  hurt  him  ;  prosperous, 
too,  and  well  accredited.  Most  widowers 
marry.  Men  are  not  monogamists,  as  a  rule. 
Some  theorists  hold  that  they  should  be,  and 
I've  heard  that  the  inhabitants  of  other  earths 
in  the  universe  are  ;  but  all  that's  clean  aside 
from  the  custom  with  us.  We  terrestrial  fel 
lows  aren't  exalted  enough.  /  should  think 
that  a  man  who'd  once  had  the  comfort  of  a 
wife  would  feel  pretty  lonesome  when  left  to 
himself.  Have  you  ever  thought  that  your 
father  might  marry  again  ?" 

Judy  settled  her  hat  before  replying.  They 
had  come  to  a  bit  of  broken  ground,  and  the 
horses  were  walking. 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  Judy  admitted.  "  And  long 
ago  I  used  to  be  jealous  whenever  the  idea 
was  mooted — by  the  servants,  you  know,  or 
my  school-mates.  Not  jealous  for  mamma, 
because  she  died  at  my  birth,  and  conse- 


qucntly  is  but  a  heavenly  ideal  to  me ;  but 
jealous  for  myself.  When  I  got  old  enough 
I  was  sent  to  the  convent  school  in  San  An 
tonio,  because  it's  accounted  the  best.  They 
take  pupils  who  are  outside  of  their  com 
munion,  and  papa  could  not  bear  to  send  me 
very  far  away.  The  good  Sisters  there  put 
some  sense  into  my  silly  noddle." 

"  On  the  subject  of  second  marriages  ?" 
"  On  the  subject  of  that  which  consecrates 
all  marriage — the  subject  of  love,"  she  re 
sponded,  gravely.  "  They  made  me  realize — 
the  good  Sisters — that  much  that  goes  by  the 
name  of  affection  is  just  selfishness  in  stolen 
garments.  They  said  that  love  is  sunshine, 
and  that  no  one  has  a  right  to  erect  barriers 
to  turn  it  aside  from  their  fellows ;  that  we 
should  rather  clear  them  away,  and  keep  the 
atmosphere  so  that  none  of  the  life-giving 
rays  are  weakened  in  force  or  dissipated.  It 
is  a  great  responsibility  to  set  one's  self  up 
and  dictate.  They  said  love  could  be  best 
demonstrated  by  self-sacrifice.  That  set  me 
thinking.  I  knew  that  papa  had  promised 
my  mother  not  to  marry  again  until  I  was 
grown  and  able  to  take  care  of  myself.  That 


looked  to  me  hard,  when  papa  was  still  a 
young  man  when  she  died.  When  I  was 
about  fourteen  I  told  him  so,  and  that  I  was 
quite  willing  he  should  marry  again  if  it 
would  be  for  his  happiness." 

St.  John  felt  touched.  "  What  was  his 
answer?"  he  queried,  gently. 

Judy  laughed.  "  He  pinched  my  cheeks 
till  they  burned,  and  then  kissed  me,"  she 
said.  "  Then  he  told  me  that  he  had  not  yet 
seen  a  woman  he  accounted  worthy  to  fill 
mamma's  place.  So  that  was  comfortable  for 
us  both,  you  see,  and  I  hadn't  the  feeling  that 
I  might  be  spoiling  his  life.  It  is  a  hideous 
thing  to  spoil  another  life.  And  I  really 
would  not  object  to  a  step-mother  who  was  a 
very  nice  woman,  and  loved  papa  well  enough 
to  put  his  happiness  first." 

St.  John  bent  towards  her  a  little. 

"  You  may  marry  yourself,"  he  said,  and 
a  glow  leaped  from  his  heart  to  his  eyes. 

Judy  kept  hers  averted,  scooping  up  her 
horse's  mane  with  her  crop,  and  throwing  it 
from  side  to  side. 

"  Things  that  are  stranger  have  happened," 
she  murmured,  non-cominittally. 


"  That  would  not  be  strange,"  St.  John  as 
serted.  "  It  is  a  natural — an  inevitable — se 
quence.  Women  like  you  are  made  to  bless 
men's  lives;  to  fill  their  hearts  and  homes 
with  light  and  love  and  a  glory  of  happi 
ness." 

lie  paused  abruptly  and  caught  his  breath 
hard.  It  had  rushed  over  him  in  a  strong  wave 
that  he  loved  her  himself — that  he  wanted 
her;  yearned  for  her  with  every  force  and  fibre 
of  his  being.  And  behind  this  wave,  a  wake 
flotsam,  came  the  conviction  that  for  a  man 
without  income  or  prospects  to  feel  as  he  did 
was  little  short  of  madness.  He  steadied 
himself,  and  forced  back  the  words  which 
thronged  to  his  lips,  lie  must  first  canvass 
this  matter  alone,  and  decide  whether  he  had 
a  right  to  speak. 

The  balance  of  the  ride  was  unsatisfacto 
ry,  long  silences  being  disrupted  with  eager 
explosions  of  talk  about  irrelevant  matters. 
Much  earlier  than  her  wont  Judy  insisted 
upon  turning  homeward,  giving  as  a  reason 
that  her  aunt's  visit  was  hurrying  to  a  close. 
Mrs.  Lestrange's  migratory  family  were  on 
the  point  of  reassembling,  and  it  behooved 


81 


the  wife  and  mother  to  return  to  Galveston 
to  welcome  them. 

Whether  or  not  the  girl  divined  St.  John's 
perturbation,  and  had  no  wish  to  precipitate 
a  climax,  is  an  open  question.  Certain  it  is 
that  a  new  expression  had  come  to  his  face ; 
and  that  feminine  insight  in  love  matters 
might  pass  muster  for  revelation. 


VIII 

IN  his  own  room  that  night  St.  John  went 
over  the  situation.  He  accepted  the  great 
fact  of  his  love  unhesitatingly,  unquestion- 
ingly,  as  he  accepted  other  great  facts  of  his 
being.  There  was  even  in  his  recognition  of 
it  that  fine  humility,  that  tender  wistfulness 
and  solemnity  which  a  true-natured  man  will 
always  feel  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  basks  in 
the  glory  which  transforms  the  world.  The 
impulse  was  in  him  to  uncover  his  head,  as 
one  does  in  a  place  of  worship,  and  his  love 
seemed  to  him  an  element  of  marvellous  puri 
ty  and  value. 

Abstractly  he  knew  about  love,  had  played 
with  the  passion,  and  jested  about  it;  but 
never  until  now  had  he  realized  its  force,  or 
recognized  it  for  that  which  it  is — an  omni 
present  and  dominating  factor  of  life. 

After  a  little  the  fact  of  his  love  for  Judy 
gave  place  to  desire  to  tell  her  about  it,  and 


jy, 

tiRr* 

m 


,/ 

fp 

. 


to  win  from  her  some  evidence  of  reciprocal 
passion.  He  went  over  their  intercourse  care 
fully,  seeking  a  sign.  Could  she  ever  love 
him  ?  Did  she  guess  that  he  loved  her  ? 
Then  he  thought  of  her  eyes,  of  her  lips;  of 
the  gracious  curves  of  her  form,  and  the  soft 
dimpling  of  her  throat  where  it  rose  from  the 
shoulders.  He  dwelt  on  her  tenderness,  her 
honor  and  truth ;  and  on  the  quaint  humor 
which  gave  zest  to  her  speech  and  made  in 
tercourse  with  her  an  unflagging  delight.  He 
compared  her  with  the  women  of  his  own 
land,  and  exulted  to  think  that  not  one  of 
the  titled  matrons  or  maids  whom  he  remem 
bered  was  her  peer  in  loveliness,  brilliance,  or 
breeding.  If  only  she  could  love  him  well 
enough  to  become  his  wife,  how  he  would 
joy  to  parade  her  before  the  prejudiced  dames 
and  ignorant  damsels  who  presumed  to  look 
down  upon  this  vigorous  land,  and  to  account 
its  human  products  elemental  and  crude. 
His  sweet  Southern  wife  would  outshine 
them  all  in  her  beauty  and  brightness.  He 
half  extended  his  arms,  as  though  by  so  do 
ing  he  could  compass  the  space  which  lay  be 
tween  them ;  his  eyes  glowed  with  a  hot 


light,  and  with  his  thought  he  caressed  her. 
What  would  Maudie  say  if  she  could  look 
upon  his  love  ? 

The  thought  of  his  sister  acted  as  a  cold 
douche  upon  St.  John's  passion ;  he  sat  for  a 
second  paralyzed,  almost  gasping.  A  point 
of  view  suddenly  presented  itself  which  ill- 
pleased  him.  He  had  known  all  along  that 
it  existed,  and,  sooner  or  later,  must  be  taken 
into  account ;  but  he  hated  it,  and  had  will 
ingly  enough  let  passion  thrust  it  one  side. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  paced  the  floor 
restlessly.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  a 
wealthy  man's  daughter,  and  Lady  Wolcott 
would  be  delighted.  He  had  fallen  in  love 
with  a  wealthy  man's  daughter,  and  had  just 
twenty-five  dollars  in  the  world  with  which  to 
make  a  home  for  her.  He  drew  his  breath  hard, 
and  then  laughed — the  disproportion  touch 
ing  his  sense  of  humor.  It  was  no  laughing 
matter,  however.  Lord  !  what  a  fool  he  must 
be,  to  sit  weaving  visions  with  only  twenty- 
five  hard  dollars  to  base  them  upon ! 

True,  he  could  work — could  establish  him 
self  somewhere,  and  toil  for  success  as  other 
men  did.  But  where,  and  at  what  ?  He  had 


already  demonstrated  his  incapacity  for  most 
enterprises  going,  arid  now,  plus  a  reputation 
for  failure,  and  minus  capital,  he  did  not  seem 
to  himself  calculated  for  business  pioneering 
in  new  directions.  The  life  of  a  ranchman 
would,  he  knew,  suit  him  admirably ;  he  liked 
it  in  every  detail,  and  had  recognized  his  own 
fitness  for  it  from  the  first.  Given,  for  a  start, 
a  fair  tract  of  country  and  a  few  cattle,  and 
he  felt  confident  he  could  engineer  his  fort 
unes  to  success :  the  round  peg  would  have 
gravitated  to  a  hole  of  the  proper  shape  and 
proportions.  This  would  be  the  sort  of  life 
and  home  he  would  choose  for  himself,  and 
Judy  was  accustomed  to  it  also,  so  that  its 
conditions  would  be  no  strain  upon  her.  If 
only  it  could  be  somehow  managed.  As  he 
stood,  however,  he  was  as  well  accoutred  for 
purchasing  and  equipping  a  ship  of  the  line 
as  for  buying  and  stocking  a  ranch  of  even 
the  most  modest  proportions. 

He  paused  in  his  walk  as  the  idea  of  his 
uncle  presented  itself.  Perhaps  the  Colonel 
might  back  him  in  a  venture.  He  was  of 
the  old  gentleman's  blood — his  nephew  and 
namesake  ;  the  son  of  a  much-beloved  broth- 


cr.  Then,  too,  since  his  arrival  he  had  been 
given  to  understand  in  various  unmistakable 
ways  that  his  own  personality  had  not  been 
a  disappointment  to  his  kinsman.  Surely  all 
this  must  constitute  some  sort  of  claim. 

Then  he  remembered  that  he  really  knew 
next  to  nothing  of  his  uncle's  resources ;  that 
the  Colonel  had  a  family  of  his  own  to  pro 
vide  for,  and,  in  addition,  that  he  was  un 
reasonably — therefore  violently — prejudiced 
against  the  very  people  with  whom  his  neph 
ew  wished  to  ally  him.  Then,  too,  the  young 
lady  in  the  case  was  supposed  to  have  flirted 
(with  disastrous  results)  with  the  Colonel's 
own  son. 

St.  John  did  not  himself  blame  Judy  in 
the  least.  He  felt  convinced  that  whatever 
may  have  occurred  in  the  past  must  have 
been  entirely  Tom  Lawless's  fault.  Mascu 
line  vanity  is  prone  to  misconstrue  social 
empressement  and  natural  amiability  and  the 
gregarious  instinct  in  women  ;  to  mistake  ev 
idences  of  these  harmless  qualities  for  evi 
dences  of  love.  St.  John  was  open  to  the 
same  charge  himself,  but  similitude  in  case 
did  not  strike  him.  Instead,  he  over  judged 


87 


his  cousin,  and  being  ignorant  of  love  troubles, 
and  forceful  by  nature  himself,  could  not  make 
necessary  allowance  for  a  weaker  character  and 
wilder  impulses.  Still,  he  could  see  plainly 
enough  that,  under  existing  circumstances,  it 
would  require  assurance  to  request  Colonel 
Lawless  to  smooth  the  path  to  marriage  for 
Judy  Fontaine. 

Mejares  might  help  him  perhaps.  All  pop 
ular  novelists  are  supposed  by  the  ignorant 
populace  to  coin  money  hand  over  fist,  and 
St.  John  knew  that  the  work  of  Mejares  was 
in  demand.  But  then  the  novelist  was  a 
cripple,  and,  while  his  infirmities  by  no  means 
interfered  with  his  ability  to  acquire  wealth, 
it  seemed  to  St.  John,  striding  about  on  strong 
legs,  rather  mean  for  an  able-bodied  man  to 
borrow  money  of  Mejares. 

Then  the  devil  tempted  him  with  thoughts 
of  how  easy  life  could  be  made  for  him  by 
others  if  only  Judy  should  love  him.  But  he 
kicked  the  devil  out  with  some  very  strong 
language.  A  man  should  be  self-supporting, 
at  least,  whether  he  could  be  wife-supporting 
or  not. 

lie  tramped  about  a  good  part  of  the  night, 


reviewing  the  situation  in  all  its  bearings,  but 
coming  to  no  conclusions.  When  the  chick 
ens  were  crowing  for  day  he  betook  himself 
to  bed  and  fell  into  uneasy  slumber,  diversi 
fied  by  dreams  of  an  uncomfortable  quality, 
chief  among  which  was  a  vision  of  Captain 
Fontaine's  conducting  him — St.  John — into 
an  apartment  of  the  hacienda,  and  there  pre 
senting  him  to  a  lady  luxuriant  enough  to 
become  a  mother  in  Israel,  and  to  five  grin 
ning  urchins  already  in  evidence.  This  was 
a  possibility  of  the  near  future,  his  dream 
father-in-law  assured  him,  adding,  impres 
sively,  "  there  will  be  long  division,  my  dear 
sir,  very  long  division." 


IX 


THE  adage  that  "colors  seen  by  candle 
light  are  different  seen  by  day  "  applies  to 
most  things  in  life.  St.  John  awoke  very 
cheerful,  and  with  such  energies  as  he  pos 
sessed  in  full  force.  While  he  splashed 
through  his  bath,  shaved  himself,  and  got 
into  his  garments,  he  elaborated  a  scheme 
for  his  future  which  looked  to  him  feasible. 
With  the  capital  in  hand  he  would  hie  him 
at  once  to  San  Antonio,  and  there  consult 
agents — people  who  had  that  sort  of  business 
in  charge — on  the  chances  for  getting  a  po 
sition  as  manager  on  some  cattle  or  sheep 
ranch,  with  a  definite  salary  on  which  a  wife 
might  be  supported.  He  remembered  hav 
ing  heard  that  reliable,  intelligent  men  were 
sometimes  in  demand  for  positions  of  the 
sort,  and  also  that  men  of  education  were 
preferred  by  gentleman  owners.  About  this 
matter  he  could,  and  would,  consult  with  both 


'.Ml 


his  uncle  and  Mejares,  keeping,  of  course,  his 
interior  motive  concealed  for  the  present.  He 
felt  that  he  might  count  on  both  men  for  ad 
vice,  possibly  for  suggestion  and  influence. 
There  were  many  Englishmen  about,  even  a 
nobleman  or  two,  and  among  them  might 
haply  be  found  a  berth  for  a  fellow  Briton. 

Even  with   an   assured   position,  St.  John 
knew  that,  financially  speaking,  he  would  be 
no  match  for  Judy ;  but  he  had  been  in  the 
States  long  enough  to  discover  that  ethnical 
values   count   at   full   worth  with   even   the 
stoutest    republican.      America   is  still    too 
quick  with  the  blood  of  the  old  world  for  the 
old-world  precedents  and  prejudices  to  have 
died  out  of  consciousness.    The  young  fellow, 
as  was  natural,  thought  well  of  himself  for  be 
ing  English  and  a  St.  John,  and,  involuntarily, 
assumed  that  both  facts  must  count  in  his 
favor.     A  man  of  birth  and  lineage  stood  in 
less  need  of  gilding  than  would  a  mere  par 
venu.     So  light  of  heart  did  he  become,  now 
that  he  had  evolved  a  definite  scheme,  that 
lie  fell  to  whistling  Mejares'  madrigal  as  he 
plied  his   hair -brushes,  and  visions  of  love 
and   prosperity,  conjured  up  by   his  imagi- 


91 


nation,  flitted  before  him  in  alluring  se 
quence. 

To  reveal  his  passion  at  once  to  the  girl, 
he  felt,  might  be  premature,  but  he  would 
see  her  that  day  and  prepare  her  for  a  possi 
ble  departure  for  a  few  days  upon  business. 
And,  having  already  so  openly  devoted  him 
self  to  her,  it  might  be  as  well  to  leave  in 
her  mind  a  tender  suggestion  or  two  to 
work  for  him  during  his  absence.  Women 
were  delicate  creatures,  and  required  consid 
erate  handling.  He  would  not  have  his  dear 
love  hurt,  even  in  amour  propre,  through  neg 
ligence  of  his. 

Colonel  Lawless,  he  found,  had  been  sum 
moned,  at  daybreak,  to  a  distant  part  of  the 
ranch  by  an  alarm  of  sickness  among  the 
cattle,  and  might  not  be  home  for  hours. 
Mejares,  however,  was  more  at  ease  than  he 
had  been  for  weeks,  had  been  promoted  to 
his  wheeled  chair  again,  and  was  enjoying 
the  morning  freshness  in  a  sunny  corner  of 
the  gallery.  This  was  told  him  by  Mrs.  Me 
jares,  as  the  pair  breakfasted  together,  and 
St.  John  noticed  that  she  was  pale,  seemed 
troubled,  and  had  little  or  no  appetite.  When 


questioned,  she  admitted  that  she  had  slept 
little  the  night  before,  and  that  her  head 
ached. 

Then  she  diverted  the  talk  from  herself 
and  drifted  it,  by  gradations  too  fine  for  mas 
culine  perception,  to  the  people  at  the  neigh 
boring  hacienda.  She  led  St.  John  on  spe 
cially  to  discourse  of  Judy  (which  the  young 
man  was  not  loath  to  do),  and  seemed  curi 
ously  interested  in  discovering  his  impres 
sions  of  her  nature  and  characteristics. 

"Is  she  at  all  tender-hearted?"  Mrs.  Me- 
jares  questioned,  a  trifle  wistfully.  "  Sym 
pathetic,  I  mean,  and  capable  of  putting  her 
self  in  another's  place.  That  sort  of  nature 
is  rare.  Many  women  who  would  not  delib 
erately  set  out  to  hurt  anything,  when  they've 
done  it  inadvertently  thrust  the  responsibil 
ity  away  from  them,  and  are  not  even  sorry .- 
What  you  tell  me  of  Miss  Fontaine  seems 
gentle  and  kindly,  however;  it  attracts  me." 

St.  John,  with  a  lover's  enthusiasm,  prompt 
ly  asserted  that  he  had  given  her  but  rags  of 
impressions,  while  the  warp  and  woof  of  Miss 
Fontaine's  nature  was  of  the  fibre  of  which 
angels  are  constructed.  lie  waxed  fairly  elo- 


03 


quent,  and  gave  Judy  a  character  which  no 
finite  woman  possesses,  or  could  by  any  pos 
sibility  sustain.  And  Mrs.  Mejares  listened 
with  so  much  complacence  and  such  evident 
appreciation,  that  her  cousin  had  much  ado 
not  to  take  her  into  his  confidence  on  the 
spot,  and  was  only  deterred  from  so  doing 
by  the  coming  and  going  of  servants.  Surely 
Anne  must  suspect  something,  he  told  him 
self  joyously,  and  had  taken  this  way  of  as 
suring  him  of  her  sympathy  and  interest. 
Decidedly,  Anne  was  a  woman  of  penetra 
tion  and  sweetness ;  no  wonder  she  reminded 
him  'of  Maudie,  when  she  was  so  kindly  and 
affectionate.  He  went  out  on  the  gallery  to 
talk  to  Mejares  in  quite  a  glow  of  fraternal 
feeling  for  Anne. 

St.  John  did  Mrs.  Mejares  far  more  than 
justice ;  the  truth  of  the  business  being  that 
she  had  not  the  faintest  suspicion  of  his  love- 
affair.  During  the  major  portion  of  his  visit 
she  had  been  absorbed  in  family  matters  and 
nursing,  and,  with  the  exception  of  meal 
times  and  during  the  evenings,  had  given 
little  heed  to  her  cousin's  movements.  When 
he  was  out  of  the  house,  if  she  noted  the 


'.tl 


fact,  she  supposed  him  to  be  away  on  the 
range  with  her  father,  or  amusing  himself 
with  the  horses.  Her  desire  for  information 
about  Miss  Fontaine  had  been  prompted  by 
purely  personal  motives.  The  previous  even 
ing  she  had  committed  an  indiscretion  which 
she  was  seeking  to  justify  to  herself.  Her 
reason  for  interviewing  St.  John  was  because 
she  chanced  to  remember  that  he  had  some 
acquaintance  with  the  inmates  of  the  neigh 
boring  hacienda. 

Mejares  laid  aside  his  paper  when  St.  John 
joined  him,  and  replied  to  all  personal  inqui 
ries  with  his  customary  courtesy.  He  was 
afraid  to  risk  much  motion  yet,  he  explained, 
when  St.  John  offered  to  wheel  him  about ; 
his  pain  was  in  abeyance  for  the  time,  but  it 
hung  about,  tiger-like,  and  might  pounce  on 
him  again  at  any  moment.  lie  motioned  his 
guest  to  a  seat,  and  strove  to  entertain  him, 
but  with  an  absent  atmosphere  and  in  a  per 
functory  manner.  St.  John  noticed  it  at 
once. 

"  See  here,  Luis,"  he  remarked  with  com 
fortable  directness ;  "  that  isn't  necessary, 
you  know.  You  mustn't  fancy  you've  got  to 


06 


lay  yourself  out  for  me  when  you're  bothered. 
That  sort  of  thing's  a  curse  when  a  fellow's 
mind  isn't  free,  and  I  can  see  plainly  enough 
that  you're  in  some  sort  of  a  hole.  Can't  I 
help  you  out  ?  If  so,  I'll  stay  ;  if  not,  I'll  take 
myself  off  until  another  time." 

Mejares  glanced  up  with  a  smile  of  appre 
ciation.  The  other  man's  simple  straight 
forwardness  made  matters  easy.  He  took  a 
sudden  resolution. 

"  You've  got  a  deal  of  that  rare  quality 
called  common -sense,  Clere,"  he  responded. 
"  And  a  bit  of  it  might  be  of  service.  I  am 
bothered,  most  particularly  bothered,  and  I 
don't  quite  see  my  way  out.  Perhaps  you 
can  help  me  find  it." 

"All  right,"  St.  John  said;  "two  heads 
beat  one,  you  know.  We  can  corral  the  ani 
mal  together,  I  fancy.  Let  me  see  him." 

"  We  can  try,  at  all  events,"  Mejares  de 
clared.  "You're  a  man  to  be  trusted  and  a 
member  of  the  family,  so  there's  no  reason 
you  should  be  excluded  from  counsel.  Just 
wheel  me  into  the  study,  Clere.  We'll  be  less 
liable  to  interruption,  and  I  want  to  talk  con 
fidentially  to  you." 


96 


St.  John  did  as  requested,  grinning  inward 
ly  at  this  complete  turning  of  the  tables.  lie 
had  come  out  with  the  intention  of  securing 
advice,  and,  possibly,  assistance,  from  Mejares, 
and  by  a  swift  twirl  of  the  wheel  found  him 
self  anticipated.  "  All  the  better,"  thought 
he  with  great  cheerfulness ;  "  my  turn  will 
come  later,  and  if  I  can  give  him  a  pretty 
stout  boost  he'll  be  all  the  more  willing  to 
give  me  one."  Aloud  he  simply  signified  that 
he  was  quite  at  the  novelist's  disposal. 

Mejares  settled  himself  irritably.  "It's 
about  Tom,"  he  announced,  without  circum 
locution.  "  He's  up  a  tree — the  worst  sort. 
A  real  top-lofty  one,  poor  devil !" 

"  What's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Quien  sabe  !  The  usual  thing,  I  suppose. 
Bucking  the  tiger,  and  all  that.  Ecarte, 
monte,  rouge-et-noir,  faro,  and  the  whole 
gamut  of  deviltry.  Folly  at  the  start  and 
ruin  at  the  finish !  Tom  comes  out  on  bad 
lands.  They  all  do  finally.  lie's  given  a  note 
for  three  thousand,  and  he  can't  meet  it." 

St.  John  whistled. 

«  When  does  it  fall  due  ?" 

"  In  a  week.    Tom  sent  me  a  letter  by  pri- 


vate  hand  last  night.  He's  at  a  bit  of  a  Mex 
ican  lay-out,  a  few  jacals,  a  store  and  a  bar 
room,  to  the  northwest  here,  sixty  miles ;  a 
tag-rag  sort  of  place,  at  the  intersection  of 
trails,  and  mostly  inhabited  by  greasers  and 
toughs.  Not  the  sort  of  place  for  a  self-re 
specting  fellow  to  sojourn,  but  it's  close  by. 
Tom  don't  want  to  come  home  yet,  and  he 
asks  me  to  send  the  money  to  him  there  by 
safe  hand." 

"  Why  didn't  he  ask  his  father  ?"  ques 
tioned  St.  John,  bluntly. 

Mejares  smiled. 

"Because,  with  all  his  recklessness,  Tom 
has  a  most  unbounded  admiration  and  re 
spect  for  his  father,  and  won't  willingly  ap 
pear  to  disadvantage  before  him.  He's  work 
ed  through  pretty  much  all  his  scrapes  with 
out  letting  the  padre  know.  This  affair  would 
cut  the  old  fellow  deep,  and  Tom  knows  it. 
The  padre  isn't  a  martinet,  but  he's  rough  on 
some  follies,  and  gambling  is  one  of  'em.  He 
counts  it  not  only  dishonorable,  but  caddish — 
sinking  a  gentleman  to  the  level  of  scalawags 
and  rowdies.  Tom  and  I  are  near  of  an  age, 
and  were  chums  at  school  before  we  became 

7 


'.IS 


brothers-in-law.  It  wasn't  such  a  pull  to  come 
to  me  for  help." 

"  But  can  you  give  it?  Three  thousand's 
a  big  sum  to  hand  over  at  short  notice.  Have 
you  got  it  by  you  ?" 

"  Not  exactly  ;  but  I  can  get  it.  I've  se 
curities  on  which  it  can  be  easily  raised,  if 
there  was  only  time  to  go  about  the  matter  in 
the  regular  way.  But  Tom's  crowned  his 
folly  by  leaving  his  request  until  almost  the 
last  moment,  and  then  putting  himself  in  a 
hole  with  which  there  is  no  postal  communi 
cation.  God  knows  what  he  did  it  for,  unless, 
as  he  hints,  he  expects  me  to  drive  up  there 
and  straighten  things  out.  I'd  do  it  too,  but 
for  these  cursed  legs  having  downed  me  so 
completely  just  now.  The  only  way  out  I 
can  see,  in  the  time  allowed,  will  be  for  Tom 
to  take  the  securities,  with  a  private  letter  of 
instructions,  over  to  Fort  Twilight,  and  get 
the  adjutant  there,  who  is  a  wealthy  fellow 
and  a  personal  friend  of  my  own,  to  fix  up  the 
business  until  I  can  communicate  with  my 
banker.  It  can  be  managed  that  way,  only 
I've  got  to  communicate  with  Tom  at  once, 
and  put  him  in  the  way  of  getting  the  money, 


99 


and  I  don't  feel  right  about  trusting  valuable 
papers  to  any  sort  of  a  messenger.  Then  I'm 
not  sure  I  can  make  certain  points  in  regard 
to  the  matter  impressive  enough  in  writing. 
If  Tom's  been  drinking,  he  mayn't  half  read 
my  instructions,  or  understand  them.  He 
ought  to  be  talked  to  and  have  things  rubbed 
into  him.  Ordinarily  I  could  stand  the  trip 
up  yonder ;  but  now — "  he  paused  irritably. 

St.  John  saw  his  drift  at  once. 

"  You'd  like  me  to  go,  perhaps,"  he  sug 
gested. 

Mejares  nodded  emphatically. 

"  It  would  be  the  best  way,  if  you  wouldn't 
mind  it  too  much.  I  lay  awake  a  good  part 
of  the  night  studying  it  out.  This  last  bout 
of  neuralgia  has  worsted  me  terribly,  and 
there  is  Anita  also  to  be  considered.  We  have 
been  married  a  long  time,  and  had  almost 
given  up  hope  ;  but  now — you've  noticed  2" 

St.  John's  face  softened.  "  Yes,  I've  no 
ticed,"  he  answered,  gently. 

"  That  being  the  case,  you  can  see  the  im 
portance  of  sparing  her  anxiety.  If  I  make 
the  attempt  myself,  I'll  have  to  justify  it  by 
telling  her  about  Tom,  and  then  she'll  have 


100 


two  worries,  and  fret  herself  ill  over  them. 
Tom's  escapades  are  enough  on  her  mind 
as  it  is,  without  this  climax.  The  padre 
ought  to  be  spared,  if  possible,  also.  He's 
getting  into  years  now." 

"  I've  no  sort  of  objection  to  going  if  you 
think  I  can  manage,  and  are  willing  to  trust 
me  with  the  affair.  But  how  about  Tom  ?" 

"  Tom  be  hanged  !"  returned  Mejares,  an 
grily.  "  When  a  man  plays  the  fool  with  his 
eyes  open,  and  flounders  into  a  bog,  he's  got 
no  business  dictating  the  method  by  which 
he's  to  be  pulled  out.  /'//  be  thankful 
enough  if  you'll  take  charge  of  the  affair. 
You're  a  stranger  to  Tom,  and  will  appear 
simply  as  my  agent.  I'll  coach  you  on  the 
points  I  want  pressed.  It's  asking  a  tre 
mendous  deal  of  you,  Clere ;  but  I  really  see 
no  other  way.  The  time's  limited,  and  these 
legs  of  mine  are  virtually  a  Bastile." 

"That's  all  right,"  St.  John  hastened  to 
say.  "  I'm  more  than  pleased  to  oblige 
you.  Give  me  a  straight  lead  in  the  busi 
ness,  and  I'll  work  through  to  the  best  of 
my  ability." 

"  I'm  sure  of  it,"  acquiesced  Mejares  heart- 


101 


ily.  "  For  the  padre's  sake,  and  Anita's. 
And  see  here,  Clere :  I  don't  ask  you  this 
additional  favor,  you  know,  but  if  you  could 
get  around  Tom  and  make  him  cut  deviltry 
and  come  home  for  a  bit,  it  would  be  the 
best  thing  possible.  An  outsider  can  turn  a 
man  sometimes  when  a  member  of  his  own 
family  would  only  make  him  kick  by  inter 
fering.  You've  tact,  and  sympathy,  and 
quite  an  uncommon  lot  of  sense." 

"  Go  on,"  grinned  St.  John  ;  "  butter  me 
well  while  your  hand's  in.  I'm  a  model  pre 
ceptor  of  youth — a  regular  sugar-coated  nos 
trum  that  children  all  cry  for ;  that's  me. 
But  how  about  Tom?  Some  fellows  are 
devilish  touchy." 

"  Tom  isn't.  He's  a  lovable  fellow  in  the 
main,  or  he  wouldn't  have  such  a  pull  on  his 
people.  Brainy,  too,  as  you  know,  and 
could  be  no  end  of  a  credit  if  only  he'd  get 
into  harness  and  trot  straight.  All  Tom 
lacks  is  self-restraint  and  common -sense. 
I'd  like  to  rake  him  fore  and  aft  just  at 
this  present.  But  that's  impossible  unless 
somebody  will  tole  him  home  for  me. 
He  might  come  if  he  knew  about  Anita. 


103 


He's  tremendously  fond  of  his  sister,  is 
Tom." 

They  discussed  the  matter  in  detail.  Tom's 
messenger  had  gone  to  Dundalk  on  business 
of  his  own,  but  would  return  by  Marsh  Mal 
low  early  the  following  morning,  and  could 
serve  St.  John  as  a  guide.  A  curiosity  to 
inspect  a  greaser  settlement  would  satisfac 
torily  account  for  St.  John's  absence  for  a 
few  days,  and  so  the  matter  could  be  kept 
quiet. 

"  YouVe  lifted  a  weight  from  my  mind  by 
your  kindness,  Clere,"  Mejares  said,  grate 
fully,  when  everything  had  been  arranged. 
"  I'll  not  forget  it  either,  you  may  rest  as 
sured.  Just  you  come  to  me  for  a  favor 
when  you  want  one,  that's  all." 

St.  John,  having  his  favor  already  in  mind, 
grinned  more  than  ever,  and  nodded.  He 
would  not  speak  out  yet,  however.  Time 
enough  for  that  when  he  should  return  with 
his  mission  satisfactorily  fulfilled.  The  idea 
of  occupying  the  position  of  mentor  as  well 
as  messenger  caused  him  inward  amusement. 

"By  George,"  he  thought,  **  I've  had  a  col 
lie  at  my  own  heels  trying  to  hunt  me  into 


103 


decent  pastures  so  long  that  it's  droll  to  be 
invited  to  play  collie  for  somebody  else. 
Wouldn't  Maudie  laugh  if  she  could  see  me 
working  her  racket.  I'll  do  my  best  to  bring 
this  youngster  in  by  the  ear,  if  only  for 
Anne's  sake.  Dear,  sweet  soul !  how  sympa 
thetic  she  was  this  morning,  and  how  inter 
ested  about  Miss  Fontaine !  No,  Anne  sha'n't 
be  bothered  about  that  precious  brother  of 
hers  on  this  deal  if  I  can  help  it.  And  now 
I  must  get  to  horse,  and  have  a  word  with  my 
lady  before  absenting  myself.  Will  she  be 
sorry,  I  wonder,  and  miss  me  ?  I  hope  so. 
God  bless  her !" 


ON  returning  from  her  unsatisfactory  ride, 
Judy  dismissed  her  cavalier  somewhat  dis 
tantly.  The  hacienda  was  in  considerable 
commotion,  for  letters  had  come  up  from 
below  which  necessitated  Mrs.  Lestrange's 
immediate  departure.  Her  brother,  who  had 
business  in  Rosalita,the  nearest  railway  town, 
would  accompany  her  that  far  on  her  journey, 
and  remain  away  from  home  several  days. 
During  his  absence,  a  Mrs.  Mitchel,  the  wife 
of  one  of  the  ranchmen,  a  most  respectable 
woman,  and  sufficiently  educated  to  be  com 
panionable,  would,  with  her  baby,  come  to 
the  hacienda  and  bear  Judy  company.  She 
had  filled  this  office  on  sundry  other  occa 
sions,  so  the  young  lady  made  no  objection, 
but  at  once  set  to  work  aiding  her  aunt  with 
her  preparations.  The  start  on  the  follow 
ing  day  must  be  a  soon  one,  for  Rosalita  was 
a  hundred  miles  distant,  and  Mrs.  Lestrange 


105 


always  preferred  making  the  entire  trip  in 
her  brother's  buck-board.  It  did  away  with 
the  necessity  of  making  connection  with  the 
stage  at  Dundalk. 

After  sunset  Nat  came  into  the  courtyard 
and  crossed  to  Judy's  window  with  a  note 
in  his  hand.  It  had  been  given  him  by  one 
of  the  Marsh  Mallow  vaqueros,  he  explained, 
with  a  charge  to  deliver  it  into  the  senoritcCs 
own  hand.  Judy  turned  the  envelope,  ex 
amining  it  by  the  waning  light,  but  the  hand 
writing  was  unfamiliar,  so  she  slipped  it  into 
her  pocket  unopened.  Her  aunt  needed  her, 
and  she  was  in  a  hurry.  The  letter  must 
wait.  Naturally,  she  supposed  it  must  be 
from  St.  John,  and  wondered  at  his  writing 
so  soon  after  leaving  her.  He  had  never 
written  before.  But  who  else  at  Marsh  Mal 
low  would  dream  of  writing  to  her  ? 

The  satiny  envelope  lay  within  touch  of 
her  hand  all  through  the  evening,  which  was 
necessarily  a  short  one,  because  of  the  early 
start  to  be  made  the  following  day.  When 
she  returned  to  her  room  Judy  took  it  out 
and  laid  it  among  the  dainty  toilet  arrange 
ments  on  her  bureau,  while  she  brushed  out 


100 


and  plaited  her  masses  of  hair,  and  made  her 
self  comfortable  in  dressing-gown  and  slip 
pers.  She  was  really  curious  to  know  what 
St.  John  could  have  to  say  to  her,  but  took 
a  childish  delight  in  tantalizing  herself. 
When  she  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  do, 
she  seated  herself  in  an  easy-chair  and  broke 
the  seal,  with  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

Although  dated  from  Marsh  Mallow  that 
very  evening,  the  note  was  not  from  St.  John. 
Judy  read  it  hurriedly,  glanced  at  the  sig 
nature — "  A.  Mejares  " — and  then  reread  it 
slowly,  her  eyes  widening  and  her  breath 
coming  quickly. 

It  was  a  pitiful  note — of  the  sort  which 
impulsive,  tender-hearted  women  will  write, 
on  an  unconsidered  impulse,  in  a  moment 
of  stress.  It  did  not  anger  Judy  as  a  com 
munication  on  the  same  theme,  couched  in 
different  terms,  might  have  done.  There  was 
no  reproach  in  it,  and  no  vexing  insinuations. 
A  few  facts  were  implied,  and  an  appeal 
made.  That  was  all. 

The  writer  was  nearing  her  time  of  trou 
ble,  she  said,  and  the  closeness  of  mother 
hood  had  caused  her  to  recall  and  understand 


107 


an  expression  she  had  seen  long  ago  on  her 
own  mother's  face  when  she — Anita — a  child 
of  six,  had  been  first  taken  in  to  see  the 
brother  which  God  had  given  her — the  ex 
pression  of  celestial  fruition,  won,  she  now 
knew,  by  the  suffering  and  sacrifice  of  love. 
Memory  of  that  mother -look,  and  love  for 
her  own  unborn  babe,  had  interplayed  within 
her  and  vanquished  all  pride  and  foolishness. 
She  could  not  go  down  to  the  valley  of  death 
without  trving  to  comfort  and  save  her  own 
mother's  child  from  the  folly  and  reckless 
ness  into  which  he  had  plunged  to  stifle  the 
pain  of  his  heart-hurt.  Miss  Fontaine  must 
know  how  fine  were  his  traits,  how  noble  and 
generous  his  impulses.  She  could  not  help 
knowing.  And  then  he  was  so  clever,  so 
lovable,  so  eagerly  enthusiastic.  Those  who 
could  rise  to  the  noblest  altitudes  could  also 
plumb  the  depths  ;  it  was  the  heritage  of  a 
vital,  impassioned  nature.  And  with  men  of 
this  sort  love  was  all-powerful — love  lifted 
them,  love  debased  them.  The  fruition  of 
love  made  of  them  men  greater  than  their 
fellows ;  the  futility  of  love  was  as  a  whip 
of  scorpions  urging  them  to  destruction. 


108 


Poor  Tom,  love-hounded,  was  wrecking  his 
life  in  the  effort  to  forget  love.  Would  the 
woman  to  whom  he  had  given  his  all  do 
nothing  to  save  him  ? — a  word  would  suffice, 
almost  a  look,  to  stem  the  current  of  his 
course  and  turn  it  to  good.  It  was  a  great 
power  this  —  a  great  responsibility,  which 
God  had  given  into  the  hands  of  women. 
With  love  and  hope  in  his  future,  Tom's 
present  would  steady,  and  withdraw  itself 
from  evil  contact  which  begot  reckless  con 
duct.  Tom  knew  nothing  of  her  writing, 
Anita  said.  He  was  near,  it  was  true,  at  a 
small  place  called  Vallejo,  sixty  miles  to  the 
northwest;  but  he  would  not  have  written 
himself,  nor  have  permitted  his  sister  to 
write,  had  he  known.  It  was  on  her  own 
responsibility  that  this  appeal  was  made — 
because  the  motherhood  within  her  yearned 
in  sympathy  with  that  sweet  remembered 
motherhood  of  which  Tom  was  the  offspring. 
That  was  all,  and  the  fact  that  the  poor 
woman  had  believed  every  syllable  that  she 
set  down,  and  had  written  out  of  a  full  heart, 
gave  it  force.  Judy,  although  much  less 
blinded  to  Tom's  weaknesses  than  was  his 


109 


sister,  felt  a  lump  rise  in  her  throat,  and  her 
eyes  smart  with  tears.  She  laid  down  the 
letter  and  sat,  like  a  culprit  arraigned,  her 
thoughts  skurrying  back  into  the  past,  seek 
ing  her  sin  to  confront  herself  with.  An 
oppression  of  responsibility  seemed  settling 
down  upon  her,  and  her  emotions  were  so 
stirred  that,  for  the  moment,  she  could  not 
determine  how  much  was  hers  of  right,  and 
how  much  might  lawfully  be  thrust  aside. 
Nor  could  she  see  clearly  that  misery  is  no 
excuse  for  wilful  self-degradation.  A  man 
should  regard  manhood's  worth  and  its  in 
herent  responsibilities.  The  very  fact  of 
Tom's  having  sought  to  dispel  disappoint 
ment  by  folly,  or  worse,  proved  him  deficient 
in  the  qualities  potent  to  win  and  hold  the 
love  of  a  woman  like  Judy.  But  by  some 
natural  paradox  the  girl's  very  superiority 
prevented  her  from  realizing  this,  and,  in 
stead  of  judging  Tom,  she  humbled  herself, 
feeling  constrained  by  issues  and  ideals  the 
like  of  which  had,  apparently,  small  weight 
with  her  lover.  She  dropped  her  face  on 
her  hands,  and  wept  bitterly  and  guiltily, 
because  Tom  was  said  to  be  going  wrong  for 


110 


love  of  her;  and  knew  so  little  of  love  her 
self  as  to  be  ignorant  that  it  is  passion,  not 
love,  which,  under  disappointment,  generates 
evil  impulses.  True  love  makes  a  sanctuary 
of  the  heart,  not  a  hell. 

Being  ignorant  as  yet  of  all  this,  Judy  sat 
in  sackcloth,  so  to  speak,  and  belabored  her 
breas^  with  vain  woe.  And  underneath  all, 
perdu,  in  sub-consciousness,  vanity  lay,  tick 
led  softly  under  the  fifth  rib,  and  winking 
complacently  to  the  sort  of  self-love  which  is 
gratified  by  implied  possession  of  power. 

The  girl's  sin,  after  all,  had  been  nothing 
heinous  —  rather  folly  and  thoughtlessness 
long  persisted  in,  than  deeper  delinquency. 
A  tougher  conscience  and  less  refined  taste 
would  have  held  it  as  nothing,  or  a  pastime 
of  pleasure.  At  the  school  festival  in  San 
Antonio,  where  she  had  been  a  gay  debutante, 
and  Tom  Lawless  the  first  good -looking 
young  fellow  who  had  ever  looked  love  in 
her  eyes,  she  had  flirted  with  him  joyously — 
give  and  take — with  neither  party  in  earnest. 
That  had  been  fair  enough,  but  later  it  had 
not  been  fair,  for,  ere  he  followed  her  to 
Galveston,  the  man  had  come  into  a  heritage 


Ill 


of  deep  earnestness,  and  the  fullest  passion 
of  which  he  was  capable.  During  those  Gal- 
veston  weeks  the  best  that  could  be  said  for 
Judy  was  that  she  had  not  meant  to  wrong 
Tom.  She  liked  him  better  than  any  man 
she  had  yet  seen,  and  let  him  know  it ;  she 
enjoyed  his  attentions,  and  let  him  see  it ; 
she  even  accepted  his  love  in  a  tacit  sort  of 
way,  believing  herself  always  just  on  the 
point  of  returning  it. 

And  so  she  might  have  done,  drifting  into 
an  engagement  as  women  will,  despite  in 
nate  recognition  of  uncongeniality,  but  for 
Tom's  own  conduct.  How  could  she  help 
shying  off  when  she  found  out  from  actual 
experience  the  spasmodic  quality  of  her  lov 
er's  character.  Her  instincts  were  for  well- 
regulated  methods,  and  law  and  order ;  and 
Tom  existed  in  paroxysms.  Could  she  help 
disgust  when  she  saw  him  not  always  able  to 
control  his  appetites  ? — or  a  species  of  moral 
revulsion  when  she  found  his  views  on  many 
points  unstable,  and  capable  of  the  most  be 
wildering  gymnastics  ?  The  truth  was,  Tom's 
character  was  too  complex  for  Judy's  com 
prehension  ;  therefore,  instead  of  growing 


112 


towards  him,  as  she  fully  intended,  she  had 
grown  away. 

She  had  not  intended  giving  up  her  friend  : 
she  liked  Tom,  and  always  had,  and  always 
would  like  him ;  but  when  she  had  been 
fiercely  arraigned  for  trifling  with  a  man's 
heart  for  her  amusement,  and,  when  weary  of 
the  pastime,  casting  it  aside,  what  could  she 
do  but  fly  into  a  rage  and  hurl  back  the 
charge  with  equal  fire  ? 

Still,  with  his  sister's  pitiful  note  in  her 
hands,  Judy's  conscience  ached  sorely,  and 
she  repented  her  that  she  had  flirted  with  a 
grievous  repentance. 

She  got  little  sleep  that  night,  and  that 
which  visited  her  was  troubled  by  dreams, 
and  did  her  no  good.  In  helping  the  travel 
lers  off  the  following  morning,  she  heartened 
up  a  bit,  but  that  excitement  was  soon  over, 
and,  when  the  tail  of  the  buck-board  had 
disappeared  in  the  distance,  misery  laid  its 
claw  on  her  again,  and  grimly  accompanied 
her  whithersoever  she  went.  Mrs.  Mitchel 
and  her  baby  were  not  to  arrive  until  late  in 
the  afternoon,  so  she  had  not  even  that  poor 
distraction. 


113 


If  only  she  could  devise  some  way  to  help 
Tom.  without  personal  interference  !  That, 
of  course,  was  quite  out  of  the  question,  as 
even  his  sister  would  acknowledge,  could  she 
but  know  the  arcana  of  things.  What  a 
sweet  woman  she  seemed,  this  Anita  Me- 
jares — so  tender  and  womanly.  If  Tom 
could  be  enticed  home  again  and  subjected  to 
home  influences,  surrounded  by  the  love  of 
his  own  people,  which  must  hold  to  him 
through  all,  and  bear  with  him,  and  which 
might  exhibit  itself  without  limit — why, 
surely  that  would  be  best.  The  constant  af 
fection  of  this  lovely  sister,  the  interest  and 
companionship  of  his  father  and  brother-in- 
law,  would  surely  fill  life  with  value  and 
profit  once  more.  She  remembered  well 
Tom's  talk  of  his  people  ;  his  unbounded  re 
spect  and  admiration  for  that  noble-looking, 
attractive  old  soldier,  towards  whom  she  her 
self  often  felt  drawn  despite  his  provoking 
and  unreasonable  prejudices ;  his  warm  love 
for  his  sister,  and  his  almost  venerating  affec 
tion  for  the  genius  and  character  of  his  dis 
tinguished  brother-in-law.  She  had  always 
thought  Tom  at  his  best  when  he  discoursed 


114 


of  his  home  life  and  people,  and  so  had  en 
couraged  him  often  to  do  so,  until  her  own 
knowledge  of  and  interest  in  the  Marsh  Mal 
low  household  had  become  intimate  and  thor 
ough. 

If  only  her  whilom  lover  could  be  brought 
back  to  his  own!  She  did  not  actively  think 
of  the  prodigal  son,  but  she  unconsciously 
wished  that  a  similar  experience  might  de 
velop  in  Tom ;  that  he  might  become  dis 
gusted  with  the  swine  husks  and  mire,  and 
arise  and  return  unto  his  father's  house. 


XI 


IT  was  in  this  mood  that  St.  John  found 
her  when  he  came  over,  quick  with  his  own 
love  and  hope,  and  intent  on  making  initial 
amatory  advances.  They  had  barely  touched 
hands,  however,  when  his  lover's  instinct  in 
formed  him  that  her  atmosphere  was  unpro- 
pitious.  It  dashed  him ;  but  he  bore  up,  and 
hoped  for  better  luck  presently — instead  of 
which  he  got  worse. 

Judy  entertained  him  in  spiritless  fashion, 
telling  him  of  her  aunt's  departure  and  her 
father's  plans ;  of  a  new  colt  that  had  ap 
peared  in  the  watches  of  the  night ;  and  of 
the  duenna  she  herself  expected  to  share  her 
solitude.  Then  she  listened  politely  to  St. 
John's  own  bit  of  news,  but  seemed  in  no 
way  affected  by  it.  Which  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  since  her  lack-lustre  atmosphere 
had  taken  all  the  snap  out  of  St.  John,  so 
that  instead  of  announcing  his  departure  for 


116 


a  brief  season  in  the  tenderly  suggestive  man 
ner  he  had  contemplated,  he  brought  it  out 
casually,  in  a  bluff,  off-hand  way,  as  though 
it  were  a  matter  of  small  moment,  and  no 
special  interest. 

It  was  all  very  triste  and  disconcerting ; 
but  then,  as  has  been  shown,  Judy  was  in  the 
phase  of  emotional  depression  in  which  one's 
estimate  of  one's  self  strikes  bottom.  Then, 
too,  her  mind  was  full  of  Tom  Lawless,  so 
that,  for  the  nonce,  Clere  St.  John  was  out  of 
touch  with  her. 

The  next  moment  he  had  put  himself  into 
the  very  citadel  of  things,  so  to  speak,  with 
one  sentence. 

"  This  place  to  which  I'm  bound — Vallejo 
— doesn't  amount  to  much,  they  say  ;  but 
Mejares  has  business  there,  and  is  tied  by 
the  legs,  as  you  know.  My  going  is  purely 
to  accommodate  him." 

Judy  pricked  up  her  ears,  and  faced  about 
briskly.  This  was  the  name  Anita  had  men 
tioned — the  place  where  Tom  was. 

"Where  is  Vallejo?"  she  questioned. 

Come,  thought  St.  John,  this  is  better ;  and 
he  gave  the  desired  information  with  per- 


117 


spicuity.  It  was  a  beastly  little  hole,  from  ac 
counts — a  greaser  settlement ;  but  as  he  had 
never  seen  one,  nor  even  a  Mexican  jacal,  it 
might  prove  interesting  for  a  few  hours. 
Should  he  bring  her  any  trophy  of  the  place 
— bead-work,  or  fossils,  or  unpolished  gems  ? 
Greasers  often  had  very  good  bits  of  moss- 
agate,  onyx,  or  jasper,  in  the  rough,  picked 
up  in  their  peregrinations.  If  she  had  a  fancy 
for  that  sort  of  thing  it  would  give  him  pleas 
ure  to  bear  it  in  mind. 

Judy  let  him  talk  on  without  interruption. 
Her  mind  was  a  perfect  maelstrom  of  im 
pulses  and  desires,  in  which  discrimination 
eddied  and  whirled,  and  prudence  got  sucked 
under  and  carried  out  of  sight.  Here  was  a 
chance  for  poor  Tom.  St.  John  was  his 
cousin — a  man  of  his  blood — and  the  guest 
of  his  father.  He  would  be  obliged  to  take 
interest  in  Tom  and  desire  to  help  him. 
Blood  was  said  to  be  thicker  than  water — to 
constitute  a  tie  of  worth  even  between  those 
personally  unknown  to  each  other;  it  had 
been  proven  so  in  St.  John's  own  case,  when 
Tom's  people  had  sought  him  out — a  stranger 
— and  invited  him  to  their  home  and  affec- 


118 


tion.  St.  John  himself  owned  the  force  of 
blood  ties ;  she  had  heard  him  often  admit 
it ;  surely  he  would  not  repudiate  this  one, 
when  the  kinsman  was  in  such  sore  need  of 
countenance  and  aid !  St.  John  was  a  good 
man,  tender  and  true  and  strong-natured  ;  he 
had  thoughtfulness  for  others,  and  intelli 
gent  consideration,  lie  was  going  to  this 
very  place  where  Tom  was — this  Vallejo — 
and  would  doubtless  see  his  cousin,  or  could, 
without  trouble,  provided  he  could  be  made 
to  comprehend  the  necessity  for  it.  Almost 
it  seemed  like  a  providence  that  St.  John 
should  visit  Vallejo. 

That  the  business  of  the  novelist  might  in 
some  way  be  connected  with  his  brother-in- 
law  never  entered  her  mind ;  nor  that  St. 
John  might  misconstrue  her  own  motive 
should  she  interfere.  Conventionalities  have 
slack  hold  on  isolated  people,  and,  as  far  as 
Judy  knew,  St.  John  was  ignorant  of  her 
former  intimacy  with  his  cousin.  She  had 
never  talked  of  Tom  to  him,  nor  did  she 
realize  that  others  might  have  done  so.  Her 
dominant  thought  in  the  matter  was  that, 
through  St.  John's  aid,  she  might  undo  some 


119 


of  the  harm  she  had  done,  and  so  quiet  her 
conscience. 

She  spoke  out  on  impulse  and  without 
considering  her  words ;  and  in  less  than  five 
minutes  St.  John  was  in  possession  of  the 
fact  of  her  knowledge  that  his  cousin,  Tom 
Lawless,  was  in  this  very  village  to  which  he 
•was  bound ;  that  she  was  aware  also  of  the 
wild  life  he  was  leading,  and  that  she  earnest 
ly  desired  that  influence  might  be  brought  to 
bear  which  would  withdraw  him  from  reck 
less  associations  and  give  him  a  fresh  start. 

St.  John  squared  himself,  and  his  face 
paled.  It  was  a  bad  blow  to  him  that  she 
should  care  so  much ;  totally  unexpected,  too, 
since  he  had  unconsciously  held  her  apart 
from  other  men  in  his  thought  since  realiz 
ing  his  own  love  for  her.  In  his  mental  con 
fusion  at  this  abrupt  transition  of  the  point 
of  view  he  overlooked  many  details,  and 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had  loved 
Tom  all  along,  and  now  wished  the  estrange 
ment  between  them  to  be  brought  to  an  end. 
But  to  ask  him,  of  all  people,  to  aid  her, 
seemed  to  him  terrible.  She  could  not  know  ! 
She  must  never  have  guessed  his  own  feeling 


130 


for  her !  He  groaned  in  spirit,  but  his  body 
was  silent. 

Judy,  engrossed  with  her  own  thought, 
and  utterly  heedless  of  her  companion's 
changing  expression,  proceeded  to  press  her 
point. 

"  He  ought  to  be  helped  to  his  feet  again," 
she  urged,  vehemently.  "  Some  man  of  his 
blood  should  seek  him  out,  be  gentle  with 
him,  and  persuade  him  to  give  up  and  come 
home.  It  is  terrible  that  he  should  be  going 
wrong  and  no  hand  extended  to  check  him ! 
He  is  capable  of  so  much  that  is  good ;  so 
much  that  is  fine  and  noble.  His  friends  are 
all  anxious — so  miserably  anxious  !" 

St.  John  bent  forward  with  a  strange  look 
in  his  eyes — a  compelling  look,  as  of  one  who 
would  have  truth  at  all  costs. 

"Are  you  anxious?"  he  demanded. 

Something  in  his  tone  brought  the  blood 
to  Judy's  face  with  a  rush ;  but  she  stood  to 
her  guns. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  she  replied,  stoutly,  "  very 
anxious.  Tom  Lawless  is  an  old  friend,  and 
it  hurts  me  that  he  should  be  wasting  his  life. 
I  think  some  one  should  interfere.  You  are 


121 


of  his  blood,  young  like  himself,  the  guest  of 
his  father — I  think  you  should  interfere." 

It  was  on  the  point  of  St.  John's  tongue  to 
question  why  she  should  delegate  the  task 
to  another  —  why  she  did  not  undertake  it 
herself?  Surely  no  other  could  have  so 
much  influence,  or  such  a  chance  for  success. 
Manhood  restrained  him,  however,  and,  in 
stead,  he  said  abruptly,  almost  savagely : 

"  Why  should  /  be  set  to  play  mentor  ? 
Why  not  his  father,  or  Luis  ?  They  are  near 
er,  and  more  fitted  for  the  task." 

"  That's  just  it,"  pleaded  Judy,  eagerly. 
"  They  are  too  near.  Interviews  would  be 
too  untrammelled.  They  could,  and  would, 
employ  language  that  you — that  any  outsider 
— would  be  chary  of  using.  They  would  have 
the  matter  too  much  at  heart  for  diplomacy, 
and,  instead  of  leading  Mr.  Lawless,  tactfully, 
to  see  what  a  blunder  he's  making,  they'd 
confront  him  with  it  vehemently  and  put  him 
in  a  rage.  Their  feeling,  and  his  own  shame, 
would  react  in  obstinacy.  No,  no :  don't 
you  see  that  one  outside  —  one  who  cares  a 
little,  but  not  overwhelmingly  —  will  be  best? 
Then,  too,  you  are  going  to  this  place  where 


122 


he  is.  It  will  be  all  in  your  hands,  so  to 
speak.  Oh,  you  can  help  him,  I  know,  if 
only  you  will." 

In  her  earnestness  two  great  tears  welled 
to  her  eyes  and  made  of  them  soft,  starry 
lakes  of  entreaty.  The  sight  stung  St.  John 
to  the  quick.  He  misunderstood  her  entire 
ly — and  small  blame  to  him  for  it.  He  gave 
her  emotion  a  meaning  apart  from  the  true 
one,  and  silently  ground  his  teeth.  Her  rea 
soning  was  so  good  also  —  for  Lawless ;  and 
her  pleading  had  been  convincing.  Oh,  the 
pain  of  it ! — the  brutal,  bitter  pain  of  it ! 

He  could  not  sit  there  like  a  block,  how 
ever,  and  allow  a  woman  to  weep.  He  was 
obliged  to  be  good  to  her ;  to  be  gentle  with 
her.  It  must  have  cost  her  something  to  ap 
peal  to  him.  Even  in  his  misery,  he  told  him 
self  that.  He  must  be  considerate  and  gen 
tle,  because  she  was  a  woman,  and  because 
he  loved  her. 

He  got  himself  to  his  feet,  how  he  scarcely 
knew,  and  steadied  his  voice  to  calmness. 

"  Don't  cry  any  more,"  he  said,  simply. 
"  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you.  I  will,  on  my 
honor." 


123 


He  did  not  notice  the  pronoun  made  use 
of,  nor  did  Judy.  A  horrible  intuition  of  her 
mistake  was  forcing  itself  on  her  conscious 
ness.  The  reflex  of  his  emotion  had  touched, 
and  was  stirring  her ;  memories  and  sugges 
tions  thrust  themselves  forward,  jumbled  cha 
otically,  but  none  the  less  significant.  Her 
eyes  widened,  regarding  him  piteously ;  her 
lips  parted,  and  her  breath  came  in  sobs. 

"  You  don't  understand  me,"  she  panted. 
"You — you" — then  the  impossibility  of  any 
explanation  swept  over  her,  like  a  great  tidal 
wave,  and  stranded  her  on  a  reef  of  dismay 
and  regret. 

She  covered  her  face — burning  now  with 
confusion — with  her  hands  and  turned  away 
from  him,  but  not  before,  for  one  vital  in 
stant,  she  had  seen  the  poor  fellow's  heart  in 
his  eyes.  And  St.  John,  misunderstanding 
her  more  completely  than  ever,  accepted  his 
mute  dismissal,  and  withdrew  himself. 

Judy,  left  to  herself,  dropped  down  in  a 
heap  on  the  sofa,  quivering  with  mortifica 
tion,  and  wept  with  all  her  might.  When 
the  fountain  of  her  tears  was  exhausted, 
she  lifted  herself,  all  dishevelled,  and  walked 


124 


across  the  room  to  a  mirror  and  looked  deep 
into  her  own  eyes,  and  addressed  remarks  to 
herself  which,  had  they  been  levelled  at  an 
other  person,  must  have  caused  that  person 
abasement. 


XII 


ST.  JOHN  took  himself  and  his  shattered 
hopes  off  in  such  order  as  he  could  manage,  ev 
ery  sob  of  Judy's  finding  its  echo  in  his  heart. 
So  that  was  the  end  of  it  all  —  of  his  beauti 
ful  dream  of  a  home  and  a  wife  in  this  alien 
land ;  a  dream  which  had  promised  to  change 
into  poetry  of  the  noblest  and  best  the  dull, 
sordid  struggle  for  existence  amid  unpropi- 
tious  conditions.  It  was  all  gone  to  smash — 
broken  like  a  prismatic  globe  formed  by  a 
child's  breath  and  set  afloat  in  the  sunlight. 
Through  and  through,  from  start  to  finish,  it 
had  been  a  failure,  this  American  experience 
of  his ;  mere  fluctuations  of  high  hope  and 
flat  and  utter  downfall.  He  had  just  as  well 
give  it  up  and  go  back  to  England,  and  let 
Maudie,  or  even  his  own  brother  Tom,  map 
out  the  balance  of  his  life  for  him,  and  mar 
ry  him  to  a  cotton-spinner's  daughter  if  they 
would.  It  would  be  all  one  to  him,  for  this 


126 


last  cropper  had  about  used  him  up,  wind 
and  limb.  He  would  almost  as  soon  be  led 
off  the  field  and  shot  as  anything  else,  in  his 
present  mood. 

His  heart  ached  with  a  pain  that  surprised 
him,  so  much  more  acute  was  it  than  mere 
physical  torture.  He  felt  nerveless  and  bat 
tered,  like  a  man  who  had  just  pulled  through 
an  illness.  His  love  did  not  love  him — never 
would  love  him,  he  told  himself,  over  and 
over,  with  desperate  iteration.  She  could 
not  love  him  :  she  loved  another  man. 

And  what  sort  of  man  ?  A  fellow  without 
stamina  enough  to  keep  himself  straight  until 
a  temporary  misunderstanding  should  right 
itself.  A  fellow  who  flung  himself  devilward, 
like  a  spoiled,  inconsequent  child,  because 
the  thing  wanted  did  not  drop  into  his  grasp 
at  once.  A  fellow  whose  conduct  brought 
tears  to  her  eyes,  and  forced  her  to  the  hu 
miliation  of  seeking  outside  aid  in  her  ex 
tremity.  Bah  !  it  was  wellnigh  inconceivable 
that  this  thing  should  be  ! 

In  his  jealous  bitterness,  St.  John  forgot 
the  general  impression  that  the  break  be 
tween  Judy  and  his  cousin  had  been  regard- 


127 


ed  as  final,  and  might  have  been  so  accepted 
by  the  young  man  himself.  What  could  Tom 
know  —  that  hypothesis  being  granted  —  of 
Judy's  present  attitude,  or  that  which  St. 
John  assumed  to  be  her  present  attitude  ? 
This  point  of  view  failed  to  present  itself ; 
and  if  it  had,  in  St.  John's  present  mood,  he 
would  doubtless  have  growled  that  Lawless 
should  have  divined  how  matters  stood  by 
intuition  ;  or,  in  any  event,  have  kept  straight 
for  the  sake  of  his  own  manhood  —  a  posi 
tion  which  could  not  be  well  controverted. 

And  yet  St.  John  himself  was  exhibiting 
an  obtuseness  equivalent  to  that  with  which 
he  credited  his  cousin.  His  own  intuition 
was  equally  at  fault,  and  to  the  full  as  blind 
ed  by  personal  emotion.  Had  he  been  capa 
ble  of  reasonable  analysis,  his  own  sensibility 
must  have  shown  him  how  impossible  it  would 
be  for  a  woman  who  truly  loves  a  man  to  in 
vite  an  outsider  to  inspect  with  her  that  man 
at  a  disadvantage.  She  could  not  do  it,  even 
with  the  laudable  intention  of  invoking  aid 
to  help  him  slough  off  his  follies.  If  she 
knew  her  ideal  to  be  tarnished,  and  love 
burned  in  her  heart,  she  would  endeavor  to 


hide  the  pitiful  knowledge  even  from  her 
own  sight.  It  is  when  friendship,  not  love, 
rules  a  woman  in  her  connection  with  a  man 
that  she  can  be  reasonable  about  him.  And 
had  St.  John  been  less  perturbed  himself,  he 
must  have  realized  that  Judy  had  been  most 
reasonable  about  his  cousin. 

But,  lover-like,  he  saw  nothing  save  his 
own  aching  heart,  and  Judy,  all  shaken  and 
pleading.  And  the  more  he  thought  about 
Tom  the  less  patience  he  had,  and  the  more 
inclined  he  felt  to  let  that  brother  sinner 
"  gang  to  t'  deil  his  ain  gait."  It  is  even  to 
be  feared  that  he  grimly  decided  that  such 
a  fate  would  be  good  enough  for  him. 

lie  tramped  the  floor  of  his  chamber  half 
of  the  night,  fuming  and  fretting  that  he 
would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  the 
business,  even  while  he  knew  positively  that 
he  must  go  through  with  it,  since  he  could 
not  in  honor  leave  Mejares  in  the  lurch.  It 
eased  him  to  make  futile  protests,  even  when 
acutely  conscious  of  their  futility.  His  gorge 
could  overflow  into  them  as  it  rose. 

"  I  must  keep  faith  with  Luis,"  he  groaned. 
"  lie  has  my  word  on  it — devil  take  it.  I've 


129 


got  to  take  this  money  safe  to  that  fool,  or 
be  mansworn.  Much  good  may  it  do  him ! 
But  this  elder-brother  business  I'll  be  hanged 
if  I'll  undertake.  Let  him  pull  himself  up. 
He'll  get  help  enough  without  me." 

Then  the  vision  of  Judy  returned,  and 
words  he  himself  had  spoken  came  back  to 
him.  Had  not  he  promised  to  help  her? — 
and  that,  too,  on  his  honor.  He  writhed,  but 
underneath  it  all  he  knew  that  that  promise 
of  his  would  hold  him  with  a  grip  of  steel. 

Towards  daybreak  he  threw  himself  on  his 
bed  and  dropped  into  heavy  slumber,  dream 
less  and  deep — the  sleep  of  exhaustion.  And 
at  the  time  appointed  he  got  him  to  horse, 
and  rode  forth  to  the  assistance  of  his  rival 
in  a  nobler  and  more  manly  spirit. 


XIII 

A  COUPLE  of  days  passed  cventlcssly,  and 
during  them  Judy  recovered  her  tone  and 
much  of  her  customary  light  -heartedness. 
During  the  hours  which  immediately  followed 
St.  John's  departure  she  had  put  herself  on 
the  rack  of  humiliation,  and  turned  every 
conceivable  thumb-screw  and  pulley  by  which 
amour  propre  might  be  tortured.  She  had 
applied  unflattering  epithets  to  her  conduct, 
and  decided,  without  appeal,  that  in  blunder 
ing  officiousness  and  besotted  idiocy  she  was 
entitled  to  full  graduate  honors.  She  had 
poured  out  perfect  libations  of  tears  over 
the  whole  miserable  situation,  and  over  St. 
John's  probable  estimate  of  her.  And  then 
had  suddenly  bethought  her  of  her  own  good 
intentions,  and  also  of  the  look  in  St.  John's 
eyes  at  the  last.  These  reflections  so  cheered 
her  that  she  took  heart  of  grace  to  believe 
that,  when  St.  John  should  calmly  review 


131 


the  affair,  enlightenment  would  come  to  him. 
Surely,  if  a  man  felt  that  way  himself,  he 
must  understand  that,  if  a  woman  felt  that 
way,  she  could  not  possibly  do  that  which 
she — Judy — had  done.  This  was  incoherent, 
but,  apparently,  satisfactory.  When  St.  John 
should  return,  matters  would  adjust  them 
selves  comfortably  once  more. 

The  prime  factor  in  this  return  of  cheerful 
ness  was  not,  however,  hard  common-sense, 
but  Mrs.  Mitchel's  baby,  an  engaging  young 
person  of  eighteen  months  old,  who  was  hav 
ing  a  respite  from  the  horrors  of  dentition, 
and,  with  true  feminine  philosophy,  devoting 
the  interim  to  enjoyment  and  the  acquisition 
of  accomplishments.  She  was  a  pretty  little 
creature,  and  manifested  a  most  flattering 
preference  for  Judy  over  every  other  woman 
at  the  hacienda,  and  as  a  natural  consequence 
Judy  became,  for  the  nonce,  her  playmate 
and  nurse.  Merry  romps  the  pair  had  on 
the  gallery,  and  Judy  taught  the  child  to 
ride  on  the  puppy's  fat  back,  to  that  ani 
mal's  annoyance,  and  to  caper  unsteadily  to 
music. 

"  See,wmo  /"  she  would  say,  seating  herself 


133 


on  the  gallery  floor  with  her  guitar  in  her  lap 
and  a  plate  of  sweeties  on  a  chair  close  at 
hand.  "  See,  I  will  play  thee  a  cachucha,  and 
thou  shalt  dance  for  me  pretty.  Here  are 
dulces  for  thee,  amorita,  but  first  thou  must 
earn  them.  See  '."—and  she  would  point  to 
the  plate,  laughing. 

Then  she  would  gayly  thrum  the  cachucha, 
and  the  little  one,  grasping  her  little  short 
skirts  with  her  chubby  hands,  would  stand 
solidly  on  one  foot  and  prance  the  other  up 
and  down,  varying  the  performance  by  turn 
ing  herself  about  with  circumspection,  and 
rocking  from  side  to  side  gleefully.  After 
which  there  would  be  kisses  and  sweeties,  and 
also  a  great  deal  of  applause  for  the  perform 
er  from  both  orchestra  and  audience,  the  last 
represented  by  the  mother  sitting  near. 

It  was  very  sweet  and  human,  and  it  did 
Judy  a  world  of  good. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day,  when 
the  child  was  asleep  and  the  mother  busied 
about  her  own  affairs,  Judy  repaired  to  her 
room,  with  an  unfinished  novel,  and  curled 
herself  comfortably  on  a  lounge  beside  an 
open  window.  The  spring  was  still  young, 


133 


but  the  air  was  exquisitely  soft  and  richly 
perfumed  with  the  breath  of  violets,  which 
old  Carmelita,  who  loved  them,  kept  growing 
in  all  the  kitchen  windows.  The  sounds  of 
the  courtyard  came  to  Judy  distinctly,  but 
they  were  not  inharmonious,  so  she  remained 
where  she  was.  Carmelita  had  brought  out 
an  armful  of  tins  to  the  bench  under  the  pe 
can-tree  in  the  centre  of  the  court,  and  sat 
in  the  sunshine  brightening  them.  When  one 
attained  a  brilliance  that  pleased  her,  she 
would  turn  it  about  in  her  hand  with  a  smile, 
causing  the  reflection  to  dance  sportively 
about  the  opposite  wall. 

Near  her  lounged  a  vaquero,  the  lover  of 
one  of  the  girls  that  helped  with  the  house 
work.  He  was  on  his  way  home  from  some 
expedition,  and  had  stopped  in  to  see  his 
sweetheart  and  tell  her  of  the  good  hut  which 
his  boss  had  promised  to  build  for  them  when 
the  calving  season  should  be  over.  It  would 
be  a  snug  home  when  Maria  should  come  to 
keep  house  for  him.  While  he  waited  for  his 
sweetheart  to  come  out  to  him,  the  vaquero 
told  old  Carmelita  about  it ;  and  Judy,  laying 
down  her  book,  listened  likewise. 


She  could  sec  the  man's  figure,  picturesque 
and  athletic,  and  thought  how  well  the  color 
effects  in  his  costume — the  red  of  his  shirt, 
the  blue  of  the  silk  handkerchief  hitched 
carelessly  about  his  bronzed  throat,  the  russet 
of  his  long  boots,  and  the  gleam  of  silver  in 
bell-buttons  and  sombrero  ornamentation — 
came  out  in  the  sunlight  against  the  brown 
background  of  the  tree-stem  and  the  lighter, 
more  delicate  tinting  of  the  adobe  walls  be 
yond.  She  had  the  eye  of  an  artist  and  some 
skill,  so  she  raised  up  on  her  elbow  and 
reached  for  a  sketch-book,  pleased  with  the 
picture  the  two  figures  made. 

Never  had  lover  an  audience  more  unsym 
pathetic  than  the  vaquero  was  finding  old 
Carmel.  She  held  his  species  cheap,  and 
as  creatures  devoid  of  truth  and  responsibil 
ity.  She  had  been  wed  to  a  vaquero  once,  a 
man  of  great  laxity,  unless  report  did  him  in 
justice,  and,  although  the  saints  had  de 
livered  her  from  his  companionship  for  full 
fifteen  years,  the  memory  of  him  abode, 
and  distorted  the  atmosphere  through  which 
she  regarded  his  fellows.  She  looked  now 
at  the  handsome,  but  rather  weak,  face 


135 


of  the  specimen  beside  her  with  open  dis 
favor. 

"  Maria  is  a  fool,"  she  observed,  sharply, 
and  went  on  with  her  work. 

"  In  what  way,  Carmelita  ?" 

The  young  man's  tone  was  nettled,  and 
Judy  smiled  over  her  work.  Old  Carmel  was 
so  droll  with  her  prejudices. 

"  For  giving  up  something  for  nothing," 
the  old  woman  said.  "  This  good  home, 
the  light  work,  the  good  pay,  the  ease  of 
body,  and  the  gifts.  Saw  you  the  mantilla 
the  senora  brought  Maria  from  the  city — lace, 
I  tell  you,  real  lace.  When  can  you  match 
it  ?  Then  the  gowns  at  the  feast  times — silk 
sometimes,  or  wool  of  the  best,  and  the  ker 
chiefs,  the  ribbons,  and  stockings.  The  se- 
norita  gives  with  both  hands,  and  Maria  has 
ever  been  a  favorite.  What  can  you  set 
against  this?  A  wash-tub,  I  warrant,  and  a 
cook-stove  ;  coarse  rations  for  dulces  ;  blows, 
when  the  liquor  has  gone  to  your  head,  hard 
work,  and  always  a  fagged,  aching  body. 
Holy  Jesu  !  that  girl  is  a  fool !" 

The  young  fellow  laughed  lazily — so  sure 
of  himself  and  of  his  own  desirability. 


130 


"  And  the  love,  Carmel,"  he  smiled  ;  "  do 
not  forget  to  count  that." 

The  old  cynic  put  aside  her  work  the  bet 
ter  to  scoff  at  him. 

"The  loveT  she  derided.  "  Madre  de 
Dios!  just  hearken.  The  passion  it  is — here 
to-day,  gone  to-morrow,  like  the  flight  of  a 
bird.  Tell  me,  compadre,  how  many  loves  have 
you  had!  No  lies,  now.  I  know  you — va- 
queros  ! — diablos!" 

The  lover  glanced  about,  disconcerted. 
"  0i  j°i  madre  !  "  he  stammered.  "  It  is  a  tale 
you  would  make !" 

Carmelita  grinned  abominably,  and  pushed 
her  advantage. 

"  Where  were  you  night  before  last,  demo- 
nio?"  she  demanded. 

"  Abroad  with  the  cattle." 

"  And  last  night  ?" 

The  vaquero's  face  brightened.  He  saw  a 
way  to  rid  himself  of  inopportune  questions  by 
creating  a  diversion.  This  was  important,  for 
who  knew  what  tales  the  old  crone  would  pres 
ently  be  retailing  to  Maria,  lie  threw  a  world 
of  interest  into  his  face,  and  tuned  his  voice 
to  the  key  of  one  possessed  of  excitement. 


137 


"  Last  night  was  a  bad  one,"  lie  said, 
gravely.  "Have  you  not  heard?  Three 
men  were  knifed." 

The  old  woman  abandoned  her  investiga 
tions  at  once,  and  bent  forward,  her  black 
eyes  a-glitter  with  interest.  Even  Judy's 
hand  paused,  with  the  pencil-point  on  the 
end  of  Carmelita's  nose,  and  her  face  was 
turned  to  the  window. 

"  We  hear  nothing,"  the  old  woman  said. 
"  Where  was  this  ?" 

"At  Vallejo.  You  know  the  place.  I  went 
there  on  business.  The  greasers  and  toughs 
who  live  there  have  had  a  growing  quarrel 
with  neighboring  cowboys.  Last  night  it 
headed.  A  lot  of  cowboys  raided  the  town 
after  dark,  and  gutted  the  saloon.  They 
were  crazy  with  drink,  and  insulted  a  woman. 
Then  the  men  of  the  place  fell  to,  hammer 
and  tongs.  Pistol  shots  cracked,  and  knives 
flashed,  until  'twas  all  a  hell  of  confusion  and 
fighting.  Every  man  whipped  out  his  blade 
and  struck  what  was  nearest.  Jesu  Maria! 
but  it  was  fine !  The  women  fought  like 
wise  !  One  girl  had  a  revolver  at  a  window 
and  fired — blam — blam — at  everything !  A 


138 


man  sprang  inside — tore  it  out  of  her  grasp  '•> 
then  she  went  for  him  with  her  hands  and 
her  teeth  !  Maldito  !  what  a  fury  !" 

"  Santa  Maria  /"  muttered  old  Carmel, 
crossing  herself  devoutly.  "  What  next  ?" 

"Why  then — all  in  a  moment  —  it  was 
over,  like  that !"  snapping  his  fingers.  "The 
cowboys  had  been  beaten  from  town,  and 
were  mounting  their  horses.  They  yelled 
like  Comanches !  They  struck  in  the  spurs 
and  vowed  to  return ;  then  they  galloped 
away  over  the  prairie,  even  as  they  had  come 
— el  demonios!" 

u  But  the  men  knifed  ?  Who  were  they  ?" 
Carmelita  urged. 

The  listener  inside  rose,  with  a  white  face, 
and  bent  forward. 

"  Qiiien  sale?  I'm  new  to  these  parts," 
drawled  the  vaquero,  who  caught  a  glimpse 
of  his  sweetheart  through  an  open  window. 
"  They  said  one  was  the  son  of  Senor  Law 
less,  beyond  here  at  Marsh  Mallow,  and  an 
other  a  stranger,  a  yellow-haired  fellow  who 
fought  beside  Lawless.  I  saw  the  pair  once, 
in  a  doorway ;  but  that  was  before  the  fight 
got  so  furious.  The  third  man  was  the  bar- 


139 


tender.  I  helped  carry  him  in  a  house  my 
self.  The  knife  was  in  his  heart  to  the  hilt." 

Again  the  old  woman  crossed  herself. 
"  Gracios  a  Dios /"  she  muttered  —  "what 
times !" 

Judy  leaned  out  of  the  window  and  mo 
tioned  imperiously  with  her  hand.  She  knew 
the  vaquero  by  sight,  and  now  called  him  by 
name.  As  he  advanced  at  her  bidding,  he 
could  see  that  she  was  pallid  to  the  lips,  and 
that  her  eyes  burned. 

"  Is  it  true,  that  you  said  f '  she  demanded, 
hoarsely,  bending  out  to  him.  "  Those  men 
that  were  knifed  —  are  you  sure  they  were 
the  men  you  mentioned?  Think  hard!  In 
the  confusion — the  fighting — might  you  not 
make  a  mistake  ?" 

The  vaquero  shook  his  head,  unwilling  to 
remit  aught  of  the  horror  of  his  story.  He 
had  seen  the  dead  bar-tender  himself,  and 
had  helped  to  handle  him.  A  greaser  whose 
head  he  had  bandaged  told  him  about  the 
others.  He  said  the  men  fought  side  by 
side,  and  against  heavy  odds.  There  was 
little  doubt  of  their  fate.  No,  he  had  not 
been  to  Marsh  Mallow.  He  was  new  to  these 


140 


parjts,  and  knew  none  of  the  people  about. 
The  Vallejo  folks  would  send  over  a  mes 
senger,  of  course — perhaps  had  sent. 

"  Get  me  a  horse,"  ordered  Judy,  peremp 
torily.  "The  best  in  the  corral.  Carmel 
will  give  you  my  saddle.  Lose  no  time,  and 
I'll  pay  you.  I  must  find  out  the  truth." 

She  spoke  in  hard  gasps,  and  wasted  no 
words.  The  vaquero  departed  to  do  her 
bidding  without  protest.  During  his  short 
absence  she  made  the  necessary  change  in 
her  dress  swiftly,  and  gave  directions  to 
Carmelita.  Mrs.  Mitchel  must  be  explained 
to,  and  if  her  father  should  get  home  during 
her  absence  he  must  follow  her  to  Marsh 
Mallow. 

Then  she  sprang  through  the  window, 
crossed  the  courtyard,  and  signed  to  the 
vaquero  to  swing  her  up  to  the  saddle.  And 
in  a  moment  she  had  settled  herself,  gathered 
up  her  reins,  and  was  riding  away  southwest 
at  a  hard  gallop. 

Old  Carmelita  looked  after  her  an  instant 
and  then  flashed  round  on  the  vaquero. 

"  'Twas  a  lie !"  she  declared.  "  You  wished 
to  make  a  grand  tale  and  you  made  it.  Madre 


141 


de  Diosf  You  saw  not  the  men  dead,  but 
were  told  by  a  greaser ;  he  saw  not  the  men 
dead,  but  fighting.  You  are  a  fool !  And  I 
should  be  another  to  believe  you !" 

She  spat  contemptuously  and  went  back  to 
her  scouring. 

The  man  followed  her. 

"If 'twas  a  lie  to  you,"  he  growled,  "why 
didn't  you  stop  the  senorita  ?" 

She  glanced  up  again. 

"  Can  one  catch  and  hold  a  norther  in  the 
belly  of  one's  scrape?"  was  the  pertinent 
counter  query. 

"  No  :  nor  halt  a  woman  in  love  !  That  is 
the  truth,  Carmelita.  And  'tis  love  which 
rides  double  with  the  senorita  this  day  and 
lays  on  the  whip.  Take  my  word  for  it." 

The  old  woman  said  nothing. 


XIV 

JUDY  instinctively  followed  the  trail  through 
the  canon.  It  was  the  nearest  way,  and  every 
moment  was  of  value.  The  descent  into  the 
canon  forced  her  to  slacken  her  speed,  and, 
again,  the  narrowness  of  the  trail  through  the 
branch  gorge  compelled  circumspection.  But 
beyond  was  the  open  prairie,  with  only  sage 
and  chaparro  to  impede  progress,  and  there 
she  gave  her  horse  rein  and  sped  forward. 
The  long,  level  rays  of  the  westering  sun 
slanted  across  the  plain  and  glorified  it,  show 
ing  the  brightness  of  cactus  and  verbena 
blossoms  diversifying  the  gray-green  of  the 
mesquite  grass.  The  gigantic  shadow  of 
rider  and  horse  slanted  behind  them,  and 
seemed  to  leap  after,  weird  and  distorted  in 
goblin  mimicry.  The  sharp  yelp  of  a  wan 
dering  coyote,  impatient  for  darkness,  cut  the 
silence  in  twain,  and  was  echoed  hideously 
by  the  howl  of  a  lover,  standing  motionless, 


143 


sentinel-wise,  on  the  sky-line.  A  jack-rabbit, 
scared  up  from  his  nap  beside  a  sage-bush, 
pricked  his  great  ears  to  attention,  and  made 
off  across  the  trail  in  a  swinging  lope  ;  in  the 
dog  villages  the  young  puppies  scudded  to 
earth,  while  the  old  dogs  scrambled  to  the 
top  of  the  mound  and  barked  like  mechanical 
toys.  A  couple  of  vultures,  sailing  slowly 
above  in  the  infinite  blue,  suddenly  half  furled 
their  wings  and  settled  to  earth  far  ahead. 

Judy  noticed  it  all  —  every  sight,  every 
movement  and  sound.  Air  and  earth  seemed 
alive  to  her  as  never  before,  and  every  sense 
was  strained  to  abnormal  keenness  in  the  ef 
fort  she  was  making  to  hold  thought  at  bay. 

She  would  not  let  herself  think — she  dared 
not.  The  horrible  story  she  had  listened  to, 
quick  with  yet  more  horrible  possibilities,  lay 
like  a  cloud  of  oppression  close  to  conscious 
ness,  ready,  at  the  slightest  relaxation  of  vigi 
lance,  to  roll  forward  and  overwhelm  her. 
She  held  it  off  fiercely,  saying  over  senseless 
rhymes  to  herself,  counting  aloud,  taking  note 
of  her  way,  of  her  horse,  of  her  animate 
and  inanimate  surroundings ;  resolute  not  to 
let  herself  think;  resolute  to  husband  her 


144 


strength  and  her  courage  for  that  which 
might  be  before.  Should  the  wounded  men 
still  live,  no  messenger  might  have  arrived 
from  Yallejo,  and  she  herself  might  be  the 
first  bearer  of  the  grim  intelligence.  Action 
must  be  instantly  taken  to  set  doubt  at  rest ; 
the  father  must  get  him  to  horse  ;  the  sister 
must  be  prepared  so  that  worse  harm  might 
not  follow  the  telling.  And  for  the  man  who 
had  none  near  —  a  spasm  swept  across  her 
pale  face,  and  she  bent  in  the  saddle,  urging 
onward  the  horse.  No :  thought  was  bad ; 
thought  was  agony,  collapse,  incapacity  for 
endurance,  for  action.  She  must  ride. 

Mile  followed  mile,  and  the  good  horse 
spurned  the  plain  with  his  hoofs  with  regu 
lar,  rhythmical  beat.  His  grand  space-de 
vouring  stride  filled  his  rider  with  joy,  with 
wild  exultation.  Only  a  little  longer  —  mo 
ments  now — and  she  would  breast  the  slight 
rise  on  which  the  hacienda  stood,  and  learn 
whether  or  not  the  worst  could  be  verity. 

The  light  had  gone  from  the  sky,  and 
even  the  pink  after-glow  was  coo.ling,  through 
mauve,  into  slate-color,  by  the  time  that  Judy 
drew  rein  at  the  Marsh  Mallow  gateway.  The 


145 


hacienda  seemed  so  peaceful  and  quiet  that 
she  instinctively  avoided  the  front  approach, 
nor  would  she  ride  directly  into  the  court 
yard.  Her  appearance  could  not  fail  to  as 
tonish,  perhaps  alarm,  the  inmates  ;  for  why 
should  she — Judith  Fontaine — come  to  Marsh 
Mallow  save  as  the  bearer  of  tidings  ?  Even 
in  her  own  stress  and  excitement  she  was 
thoughtful  for  Mrs.  Mejares.  In  the  corral 
she  found  a  cowboy  attending  to  the  stock, 
and  questioned  him  as  to  whether  news  had 
come  from  Yallejo  that  day,  and,  receiving  a 
reply  in  the  negative,  sent  him  in  to  summon 
Colonel  Lawless,  bidding  him  observe  caution 
should  the  senora  be  in  the  room. 

The  fellow,  aglow  with  curiosity,  did  her 
errand  with  speed,  and  when  he  returned, 
with  the  Colonel  at  his  heels,  quietly  stationed 
himself  within  ear-shot. 

A  soldier  is  trained  to  surprises  and  to  the 
suppression  of  all  emotion  which  may  impede 
instant  comprehension  and  prompt  action. 
By  the  time  Colonel  Lawless  had  made  out 
who  the  messenger  was,  he  decided  that  her 
news  must  be  urgent — and  evil ;  so  that  when 
he  got  to  her  side,  and  took  her  hand  in  his, 
10 


146 


the  old  discipline  was  in  force,  and  he  wasted 
no  time  in  social  amenities. 

"  You  bring  news  of  importance,"  he  said, 
gravely.  "  What  is  it  ?" 

This  prompt  apprehension  of  the  situation 
braced  the  girl's  quivering  nerves  like  an 
electric  shock.  She  returned  the  pressure  of 
his  hand  with  a  strong  clasp,  bent  down  to 
him  and  told  her  story,  not  as  she  herself  had 
heard  it,  but  in  terse  sentences  and  without 
circumlocution. 

The  old  soldier  did  not  flinch. 

"  When  did  it  happen  ?" 

"Last  night.  I  don't  know  the  hour,  but 
it  was  along  after  dark." 

"Both  knifed,  you  say— my  son  and  my 
nephew  ?" 

"  The  man  said  so.  lie  thought  it  likely 
that  word  had  been  sent  you  already  ;  but  I 
could  not  rest  satisfied,  it  was  nobody's 
business,  in  special,  at  Vallejo,  and  the  risk 
of  your  not  having  heard  was  too  great.  I've 
lost  little  time  since  I  heard.  There  was  no 
one  else  who  could  come  as  quickly." 

"  That  was  right,"  the  veteran  said,  with 
approval.  "  That  was  sensible  and  brave. 


147 


Now  I  mmst  act,  for  every  moment  is  pre 
cious.  Mr.  Cartwright !" 

The  cowboy  advanced  with  quite  surpris 
ing  alacrity. 

"  You  have  heard  the  news  this  lady  brings  ? 
That's  well  and  saves  time.  You  must  come 
with  me  to  Vallejo  at  once.  Saddle  the  grays, 
Cartwright,  and  put  corn  in  the  pouches ; 
we'll  have  to  rest  once  to  keep  the  nags  go 
ing.  Say  nothing  to  any  one.  My  daughter 
must  hear  nothing  until  she  can  hear  all.  If 
there  should  be  a  messenger  on  the  way,  ten 
to  one  we'll  meet,  and  can  turn  him.  Look 
sharp, Cartwright !  Every  second  is  precious." 

Then  he  turned  again  to  Judy,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  neck  of  her  horse. 

"  Young  lady,"  he  said,  "  the  expression 
of  my  gratitude,  and  of  my  admiration  for 
your  courage  and  promptness,  must  wait  until 
later.  Let  me  take  you  into  the  house  before 
I  go.  I  can  trust  your  discretion.  And  all 
requisite  explanation  of  your  appearance 
among  us  I  leave  to  your  woman's  wit. 
Come  !  It's  too  late  for  return,  even  under  es 
cort,  for  that  which  I  can  offer  you  is  not 
suitable." 


148 


But  Judy  shrank  away  from  him.  In  a 
tidal  wave  of  horror  it  swept  over  her  that 
hours  and  hours  must  pass  before  she  herself 
could  hope  for  the  relief  of  full  knowledge, 
that  while  the  rest  were  shielded  from  anxi 
ety  by  ignorance,  she  would  be  a  prey  to  all 
the  torture  of  suspense.  Worse  :  that  while 
she  invented  plausible  explanations,  and  par 
ried  curiosity  with  small  talk,  the  light 
might  go  out  of  eyes  that  had  looked  love 
into  hers ;  that  hands  she  had  never  clasped 
with  affection  might  stiffen  without  that  clasp 
forever;  that  lips  that  had  never  touched 
hers  might  grow  cold  without  kisses.  It  was 
not  as  though  she  were  certain  that  death's 
work  was  done — then  she  might  have  schooled 
herself  to  patience  ;  but  now  ! — now  ! — when 
uncertainty's  self  meant  the  glimmer  of  hope ! 
No  ;  love  had  spoken  within  her  heart  with  a 
full  voice,  and  would  not  be  denied.  She 
could  not  remain  behind  —  more,  she  would 
not. 

She  laid  her  ungloved  hand  on  the  Colonel's 
and  bent  downward,  in  the  waning  light,  until 
she  could  look  into  his  eyes. 

"  Take  me  with  you,"  she  pleaded.    "  I  can- 


149 


not  stay  behind,  not  knowing.  This  suspense 
tortures  me.  Take  me  with  you  !" 

The  Colonel  expostulated. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  the  thing  is  impos 
sible  !  I  must  ride  through  the  night — almost 
without  drawing  rein.  The  fatigue  would  be 
terrible  for  a  woman !  Then  this  Vallejo  is 
no  fit  place  to  take  you.  Give  it  up  !" 

"  I  cannot,"  she  responded,  steadfastly. 
"  What  matter  about  fatigue  ?  I  am  strong. 
My  horse  is  a  good  one.  I  shall  not  delay 
you,  or  be  an  encumbrance.  What  matters 
the  place — any  place,  in  stress  like  this  ?" 

Her  persistence  annoyed  the  Colonel,  and 
he  spoke  sharply. 

"  It  is  out  of  the  question ! — the  wildest 
scheme  I  ever  heard  of !  Come,  I  shall  take 
you  inside  to  my  daughter  at  once.  Time  is 
precious,  and  here  are  the  horses." 

Driven  to  bay,  Judy  abandoned  every  ves 
tige  of  reserve,  and  let  the  agony  in  her  heart 
ring  out  in  her  voice. 

"  Can't  you  understand  ?"  she  wailed,  bit 
terly.  "  Must  I  put  it  in  words  ?  Have  you 
no  heart,  no  memory,  that  you  can't  see  how 
it  is  ?  I  tell  you  I  will  go  !  Nothing  shall 


150 


stop  me.  My  heart  is  breaking  under  this 
suspense !" 

Strangely  stirred,  the  old  soldier  withdrew 
his  opposition  at  once,  and  spoke  to  her 
soothingly,  tenderly,  telling  her  that  it  should 
be  as  she  wished. 

And  as  he  swung  himself  into  the  saddle 
and  rode  away  at  her  side  in  the  gathering 
dusk,  he  caught  himself  wondering  if  his  son 
could  be  the  man  that  she  loved.  And,  in 
spite  of  his  long -cherished  prejudices,  he 
hoped  that  such  might  indeed  be  the  case. 


XV 


THROUGH  the  long  night  they  galloped,  the 
cowboy  in  the  lead,  because  of  greater  famil 
iarity  with  the  trail,  and  the  other  two  abreast, 
riding  silently.  Once  they  halted  for  a  brief 
space  at  a  water-hole,  to  loosen  the  cinches 
and  give  the  brave  animals  a  drink  and  a 
mouthful  of  corn.  Then  up  and  on  again, 
through  moonlight  and  darkness  and  the  keen 
gray  of  dawn. 

The  sun  was  well  up  when  they  sighted 
Vallejo,  and  the  horses  were  nearly  spent. 
Judy's  beautiful  bay  drooped  his  head,  and 
moved  with  effort,  his  nostrils  flaring  in  and 
out  with  his  hurried  breathing :  the  spume- 
flakes  had  dried  on  his  bit,  and  the  sweat 
crusted  along  his  withers  and  flanks.  He 
had  come  farther  than  the  others.  Half  a 
mile  from  the  village  Judy  slacked  the  reins 
on  his  neck. 

"He's   done   up,"   she    said,   desperately. 


152 

"  Don't  wait  for  me.  I'll  come  on  as  I 
can." 

The  cowboy  pulled  up  likewise.  "  Go  on, 
Colonel,"  he  urged.  "This  means  more  to 
you.  I'll  take  care  of  her,  and  \ve?ll  come  in 
as  the  horse  can.  Find  out  about  things  and 
meet  us  at  Flinn's  saloon.  It's  the  best  house 
in  the  place.  I'll  bring  Miss  Fontaine  there." 

So  the  Colonel  went  forward  alone. 

When  he  entered  Vallejo  the  place  seemed 
deserted.  It  was  a  miserable  collection  of 
adobe  huts  for  the  most  part,  supplemented 
}>y  jacals  of  miscellaneous  construction.  The 
liquor  saloon,  as  Cartwright  had  stated,  was 
the  most  pretentious  building  in  the  place 
— a  box  house  of  four  rooms,  roofed  with 
canvas.  Here  the  Colonel  dismounted  and 
sought  information  from  a  deaf  and  rheumat 
ic  old  crone  who  appeared  the  sole  denizen 
of  the  place,  and  who  could  speak  nothing 
but  Spanish.  The  impossibility  of  making 
her  comprehend  him  nearly  put  the  Colonel 
beside  himself ;  but  partly  by  pantomime,  and 
partly  through  his  own  imperfect  knowledge 
of  Spanish,  he  gathered  that  a  funeral  was  in 
progress  in  a  grove  of  cottonwoods  beyond 


153 


the  village,  and  that  the  population  en  masse 
were  attending  it.  Whose  funeral  it  was  he 
could  not  make  out,  only  that  the  corpse  had 
been  a  good  Catholic,  and  that  the  padre  from 
the  Mission  Dolores  had  been  secured  to  per 
form  the  obsequies.  This  satisfied  him  that 
the  dead  man  could  be  neither  his  son  nor 
his  nephew  ;  so,  leaving  his  tired  horse  in  the 
saloon  yard,  he  proceeded  on  foot  in  quest  of 
fuller  information. 

Judy  and  her  escort  followed  as  rapidly  as 
the  condition  of  the  horses  would  permit. 
At  the  saloon  they  found  the  Colonel's  horse, 
but  no  living  human  creature — even  the  old 
crone  having  hobbled  away  on  some  quest. 
The  cowboy  slipped  off  the  saddles  with 
celerity. 

"  Stop  here,  senorita"  he  said,  and  led  the 
way  into  a  room  behind  the  one  used  as  a 
gambling-place.  "  This  is  a  wild  place,  but 
you'll  be  safe  here.  I  know  Jack  Flinn  well 
enough.  Don't  you  fret !  I'll  rouse  up  the 
news,  and  be  back  in  a  brace  o'  shakes." 

Utterly  broken-down  and  dispirited,  the 
girl  submitted  to  being  left,  and  sank  down 
on  a  long  box  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 


1M 


over  which  a  scrape  had  been  spread.  It  had 
been  recently  used  as  the  resting-place  of  a 
coffin,  but  she  did  not  know  that.  Iler  head 
sank  on  her  breast,  and  her  hands  wrung 
themselves  together ;  she  sat  waiting  for  that 
which  might  come  to  her  in  a  very  apathy 
of  despair.  Presently  the  mood  lightened, 
and  she  straightened  herself  and  glanced 
about.  The  room  was  evidently  used  for  a 
chamber,  for  rude  bunks  were 'fitted  against 
the  walls,  and  above  them,  on  pegs,  hung 
men's  clothing.  The  door  by  which  she  had 
entered  was  covered  by  a  crimson  Navajo 
blanket,  disposed  like  a  curtain,  and  now 
half  pulled  aside.  Above  the  jJbrtal  a  bul 
lock's  frontlet,  with  branching  horns,  was 
fastened.  On  the  other  end  of  the  box  on 
which  she  was  sitting  lay  a  crucifix,  and,  near 
it,  a  pair  of  huge  rowclled  Mexican  spurs. 

A  slight  movement  attracted  Judy's  atten 
tion  to  the  doorway,  in  which  a  child  pres 
ently  appeared — a  little  creature  of  six,  or 
thereabout — clad  in  a  single  garment.  The 
little  thing  stared  at  her  solemnly,  evidently 
much  impressed  with  this  new  specimen  of 
the  genus  woman,  and  not  quite  sure  of  its 


155 


harmlessness.  The  thought  came  to  the  girl 
that,  even  this  baby  might  possess  the  knowl 
edge  for  which  her  soul  panted,  and  she  set 
about  making  overtures  of  friendship.  Fum 
bling  in  her  pocket  for  some  means  of  at 
traction,  she  drew  out  a  bright-colored  bit  of 
cornelian,  which  St.  John  had  picked  up  for 
her  during  one  of  their  rides.  Her  lips  quiv 
ered  pitifully,  but  she  held  the  stone  out  to 
the  child. 

"  Come,  little  one,"  she  coaxed  gently, 
speaking  in  Spanish.  "Here  is  a  beautiful 
stone  for  thee.  Come  and  get  it." 

The  child's  black  eyes  glittered ;  she  ad 
vanced  a  few  steps  and  half-extended  her 
hand ;  then  a  sudden  spasm  of  shyness 
seemed  to  overwhelm  her,  and  she  drew 
back. 

The  soft  voice  coaxed  on. 

"Come,  baby.  Fear  nothing.  See  how 
pretty  it  is ! — bright,  like  the  scrape  in  the 
doorway.  Come  in  here  and  get  it.  I  will 
not  hurt  you." 

The  small  creature  advanced  again,  smiles 
dimpling  her  dark,  rosy  cheeks,  making  them 
resemble  the  sun-kissed  side  of  a  blood  peach. 


156 


Then  a  step  in  the  outer  room  seemed  to 
bring  back  all  her  fears  in  an  avalanche.  She 
glanced  hurriedly  about,  like  a  frightened 
animal,  and  tied  swiftly  away. 

A  sob  rose  in  Judy's  throat,  and  she  began 
to  tremble  hysterically.  Would  this  suspense 
never  end  ?  Had  she  come  all  this  distance 
still  to  be  held  back  from  the  truth  ?  Had 
the  men  forgotten  her ;  or  was  the  verity  so 
awful  that  they  feared  to  disclose  it  ? 

Then  the  footstep  crossed  the  outer  room, 
the  Navajo  blanket  was  thrust  still  farther 
aside,  and  St.  John  stood  before  her. 


XVI 

HE  was  very  pale  and  tired-looking,  and  a 
great  strip  of  black  court  -  plaster  slanted 
across  one  side  of  his  forehead  from  his  hair 
to  his  temple  ;  but  he  seemed  otherwise  in 
pretty  good  case,  and  advanced  at  once  into 
the  room.  He  had  met  Cartwright  abroad  in 
quest  of  information,  and  learned  from  him 
of  Judy's  presence  and  whereabouts.  Volun 
teering  to  set  her  mind  at  ease,  he  had  sent 
the  cowboy  in  pursuit  of  Colonel  Lawless, 
whom  he  had  not  seen,  and  come  on  to  the 
saloon  himself.  He  had  looked  in  the  outer 
chambers  first,  not  having  understood  clearly 
in  which  room  Cartwright  had  established  his 
charge.  It  seemed  strange  to  him  that  Judy 
should  have  come  herself,  but  he  put  it  all 
down  to  alarm  for  his  cousin.  Cartwright 
had  told  him  that  a  rumor  had  come  to  them 
that  Tom  had  been  killed. 

Judy  half  rose  from  her  seat  with  a  stifled 


158 


cry,  and  then  sank  back  again  trembling. 
"  You — you  /"  she  gasped — "  not  dead — not 
dead !"  Her  face  whitened  to  the  lips,  and 
her  eyes  were  almost  wild. 

St.  John,  realizing  something  of  the  strain 
she  must  have  been  on,  and  frightened  almost 
out  of  his  wits  about  her,  sprang  forward  and 
caught  both  her  hands. 

"  Don't  faint,  for  God's  sake  !"  he  entreated, 
his  tone  fairly  trembling  with  trepidation. 
"  There  isn't  any  need,  on  my  honor.  It's  all 
right.  Tom  isn't  hurt  any  to  signify.  He 
got  a  nasty  slash  in  the  shoulder,  but  I  coop 
ered  it  at  once,  and  the  padre  they  sent 
for  is  something  of  a  doctor.  Most  priests 
are,  you  know,  and  when  he  got  here  Tom 
got  bandaged  up  properly.  We  had  no  idea 
the  news  would  get  around  so  quickly,  or 
would  have  sent  a  messenger  over  ourselves. 
There's  no  need  to —  Good  Lord !  she's 
off!" 

But  Judy  had  not  fainted.  The  reaction 
was  so  great  that  it  unnerved  her  completely. 
She  began  to  cry  first,  then  to  laugh,  and 
finally  went  off  into  the  first  fit  of  hysterics 
she  had  ever  indulged  in. 


159 


St.  John  was  at  his  wits'  end.  lie  had 
never  seen  a  woman  in  hysterics  before,  and 
could  not  rise  to  the  occasion.  He  thought, 
at  first,  that  she  was  going  into  convulsions, 
and  began  frantically  to  entreat  her  not  to. 
Then,  through  his  confusion  dashed  a  recol 
lection  of  having  once  read  in  a  novel  that, 
under  circumstances  resembling  these,  the 
patient's  corset  laces  were  cut  and  she  was 
given  sal-volatile.  The  drawback  to  trying  the 
effect  of  this  treatment  in  the  present  case 
was  that  the  nearest  drug-shop  was  a  hun 
dred  miles  distant,  and  that  he  did  not  in  the 
least  know  where  corset  laces  were  situated. 
He  did  the  best  he  could,  however,  patting 
Judy  vigorously  on  the  back  and  beseeching 
her  "  for  God's  sake  to  give  over,  and  pull 
together  a  bit."  Then  all  her  soft  hair  came 
down  in  a  flood,  covering  his  hand  and  fore 
arm  and  twining  itself  about  his  fingers  in 
soft,  silken  meshes.  A  faint  perfume  rose 
from  it,  like  the  odor  of  an  old-fashioned 
spring  rose,  and  penetrated  his  senses  and 
set  every  pulse  thrilling  so  that  he  stood 
trembling  and  dazed,  with  his  hand  lost  in 
her  hair. 


160 


In  a  moment  he  pulled  himself  together 
again  and  freed  his  fingers  gently  and  moved 
away  a  pace.  Then  an  inspiration  came  to 
him,  and  he  dashed  to  the  bar-room  and  there 
procured  a  fiery  fluid  mendaciously  labelled 
French  brandy,  a  spoonful  of  which  he  com 
pelled  the  girl  to  swallow.  It  scalded  her 
throat  and  set  her  to  coughing,  but  it  produced 
a  diversion,  and  finally  enabled  her  to  regain 
self-command. 

When  she  had  quieted  down,  St.  John 
leaned  against  the  wall  near  her  and  heroic 
ally  began  to  talk  about  Tom  again. 

Ilis  cousin  had  gone  out  to  Fort  Twilight, 
he  explained;  had  started  that  morning,  in 
fact,  for  his  wound  was  going  on  well,  and  he 
had  business  of  urgency  at  the  post.  The 
bridle-arm  was  sound,  and  the  ride  not  a 
long  one,  so  there  was  no  cause  for  appre 
hension.  Besides,  the  post -surgeon  could 
look  at  the  shoulder.  Tom  had  not  even 
gone  by  himself.  A  couple  of  fellows  made 
the  trip  with  him — acquaintances  with  whom 
he  had  business.  It  was  a  thousand  pities 
she  should  have  heard  of  the  fight  and  en 
dured  so  much  needless  anxiety.  St.  John 


161 


spoke  with  effort,  as  one  who  compels  him 
self  to  a  difficult  task.  His  eyes  were  on 
Judy,  who  still  trembled,  but  who  was  trying 
to  recoil  her  hair.  She  gathered  the  rich 
masses  together  with  both  of  her  hands, 
drawing  out  the  loosened  hair-pins;  then  she 
essayed  to  recoil  it,  but  was  still  too  much 
shaken.  Her  hands  fumbled  helplessly,  and 
she  let  them  fall  again  to  her  lap,  while  the 
silky  brown  flood  tumbled  about  her  once 
more,  softly  framing  her  face,  and  matching 
in  color  and  lustre  her  beautiful  eyes. 

There  is  something  about  the  hair  of  a 
woman  which  possesses  a  strange,  almost 
marvellous  fascination  for  the  opposite  sex. 
Not  hair  in  order,  curled,  braided,  or  coiled 
to  the  tip  of  the  mode  ;  but  hair  free  and 
floating ;  hair  full  of  the  abandon  and  witchery 
of  nature.  Well  may  the  Lorelei  comb  out 
her  tresses  of  gold  and  toss  them  afloat  to 
the  breeze,  as  she  sings  wild  elf-songs  !  For, 
truly,  she  knows  'tis  the  sheen  of  her  hair 
more  than  the  witchery  of  her  sweet  siren 
voice  which  lures  men  to  her  bidding ! 

Judy,  enshrouded  with  the  wealth  of  her 
tresses,  dishevelled,  and  pale,  was  in  St.  John's 
11 


16:3 


eyes  a  thing  more  to  be  desired  than  all  the 
treasures  and  glory  of  earth.  He  stirred  the 
hand  which  but  now  had  been  baptized  in  its 
beauty,  and  throbbed  again  with  the  emotion 
which  contact  with  the  silken  meshes  had 
caused  him.  His  love  surged  with  fierce 
power,  beating  against  the  barrier  of  his  self- 
restraint  ;  a  groan  forced  itself  from  his  lips. 

Judy  caught  the  sound  instantly. 

"  Are  you  in  pain  ?"  she  demanded.  "  That 
cut  on  your  forehead.  Is  it  serious  ?  Has  it 
been  properly  attended  to  ?" 

St.  John  reassured  her  impatiently.  It 
was  nothing — a  surface  gash  of  no  moment. 
The  priest  had  fomented  and  plastered  it. 
Neither  his  wound  nor  Tom's  at  all  justified 
the  anxiety  .they  had  caused.  She  would 
soon  see  for  herself,  as  Tom  would  return  to 
Vallejo  by  nightfall. 

Then  Judy  surprised  him. 

"  Never  mind  about  Mr.  Lawless,"  she  ob 
served,  quietly.  "  I  want  you  to  get  some 
one  to  attend  to  my  horse  for  me.  He  must 
be  fed  and  rubbed  down.  I  must  arrange 
to  return  home  at  once." 

St.  John  stared  at  her. 


163 


"  But  Tom  !"  he  stammered.  "  I  thought 
—  I  supposed" --  he  paused  in  bewilder 
ment. 

"  You  thought  all  wrong,"  Judy  retorted 
with  impatience.  "  And  you  hadn't  any  busi 
ness  to  think  at  all.  No  man  has  :  they  are 
too  stupid.  I  must  go  home." 

She  lifted  her  hands  again  to  her  hair. 

A  light  leaped  to  St.  John's  eyes.  Could 
she  ? — was  it  possible  ?  Could  she  have  been 
anxious  about  him?  —  frightened  for  him? 
His  mouth  settled  into  firm  lines  ;  his  ex 
pression  became  resolute  —  masterful.  He 
moved  forward  arid  bent  towards  her. 

"  Look  at  me,"  he  said, peremptorily.  "  Let 
your  hair  alone !  Look  me  straight  in  the 
face.  I  must  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  thing. 
It's  life  or  death  to  me.  Were  you  fright 
ened  for  Lawless — or  me  ?" 

Judy  kept  her  eyes  down.  Crimson  waves 
from  her  heart  surged  to  her  throat,  to  her 
brow,  and  lost  themselves  in  the  dark  of  her 
hair.  St.  John  came  nearer  still,  drew  her  to 
her  feet  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
lifted  her  face  to  his. 

"  Was  it  for  him — or  me  ?"  he  repeated. 


104 


The  veiled  lashes  lifted  themselves  shyly, 
but  other  answer  there  was  none. 

Nor  was  there  need.  St.  John  opened  his 
arms  with  a  murmur  of  love,  and  drew  her 
into  them,  close  to  his  heart,  and  lifted  her 
face  again  for  his  passionate  kisses. 

"  My  brave  love !"  he  murmured.  "  My 
courageous,  beautiful  darling !  To  think  of 
your  caring  so  much !  To  think  of  your  rid 
ing  through  distance  and  night  to  see  wheth 
er  a  worthless  fellow  like  me  had  been  chop 
ped  into  mincemeat,  or  not !  There  isn't 
another  woman  alive  would  have  had  the 
pluck  to  do  it.  It  was  superb  !  God  !  how 
I  love  you  !" 

He  strained  her  to  him  again,  and  crowd 
ed  kisses  on  her  eyes,  on  her  throat,  and  on 
the  red  of  her  mouth. 

"  Lord,  what  a  donkey  I  was  !"  he  broke 
out  again,  "to  think  that  you — that  any  wom 
an —  would  have  sent  me  gallivanting  after 
Tom ;  to  fish  him  out  of  the  mud  and  brush 
him  off — if  she  cared  twopence  about  him." 

Then  Judy  found  breath  and  space  to  af 
firm  obstinately — 

u  I  do  care.     I  always  have  cared,  and  al- 


165 


ways  shall.  Mr.  Lawless  is  my  friend,  and  I 
was  as  anxious  to  know  that  he  hadn't  been 
killed  as  ever  I  could  be." 

St.  John  laughed.  Then  a  jealous  flame 
kindled  in  his  eyes. 

"But  you  would  not  have  come  to  find 
out  about  him  yourself,  would  you  ?" 

"  I'd  have  carried  the  word  to  Marsh  Mal 
low,"  asserted  Judy,  loftily. 

"  But  here  ?  You  wouldn't  have  come  here 
for  any  fellow  but  me,  would  you,  dear?  An 
swer  me  !  It  was  love  brought  you  blunder 
ing  across  that  blessed  prairie  in  the  dark, 
wasn't  it  ?  And  that  love  is  mine.  Tell  me 
so,  sweetheart.  I've  endured  such  misery 
over  this  thing.  Tell  me  that  it  is  me  that 
you  love.  You  haven't  once  said  it.  Give 
me  my  name,  darling;  say  — 'Clere,  I  love 
you.'" 

His  tone  was  so  pleading  that  Judy  re 
frained  from  more  teasing,  and,  lifting  her 
arms  to  his  throat,  said  softly  and  tenderly, 
"  Clere,  I  love  you.  And  it  was  for  the  sake 
of  that  love  I  came." 


XVII 

DURING  most  of  this  time  Colonel  Lawless 
and  Cartwright,  having  seen  to  the  comfort 
of  the  horses,  were  refreshing  themselves 
with  tortillas,  chili- con -carne,  frijoles,  fried 
in  bacon  fat,  and  tamales,  washed  down  with 
strong  coffee.  The  Colonel,  it  is  true,  on  en 
tering  the  house,  had  gone  at  once  to  the  in 
ner  apartment  to  confer  with  Miss  Fontaine 
and  discover  her  wishes,  for  he  was  already 
aware  from  the  cowboy  that  her  anxiety  must 
be  at  rest.  So  engrossed  were  the  pair  that 
they  failed  to  notice  his  approach,  and  the 
Colonel  himself  never  entered.  As  lie  neared 
the  doorway,  the  position  of  affairs  made  it 
self  manifest ;  so  with  a  muttered  "  By  Jove !" 
he  reached  out  his  hand  and  noiselessly  drew 
the  Navajo  blanket  into  place,  after  which  he 
retired.  Nor  would  he  suffer  them  to  be  dis 
turbed,  although  he  carefully  reserved  a  por 
tion  of  the  food  for  them,  and  feed  a  Mexi- 


167 


can  woman  to  make  fresh  coffee  and  keep  it 
hot  on  her  stove,  and  also  to  produce  a  plate 
of  dulces. 

So  that  had  been  the  reason  of  the  girl's 
wild  alarm.  It  had  been  St.  John's  reported 
death  or  wounding  which  had  had  such  pow 
er  to  move  her ;  St.  John's  last  hours  she  had 
fled  hither  to  comfort.  And  all  the  time  a 
hope  had  been  growing  within  him  that  the 
heart  of  this  brave  lassie  was  inclined  to  his 
son.  It  was  a  great  disappointment,  and  the 
old  soldier  sighed. 

He  had  taken  an  enthusiastic  liking  to 
Judy,  whose  courage  and  patience  under  the 
long  strain  and  fatigue  had  won  his  respect 
and  admiration.  There  was  fine  stuff  in 
the  girl,  he  had  told  himself,  more  than 
once,  as  he  galloped  beside  her  through  the 
long  night.  She  was  a  real  soldier's  daugh 
ter,  so  sensible,  so  resolute,  and,  withal,  so 
docile  and  grateful  for  care.  He  almost 
thought  well  of  his  old  enemy  for  having 
reared  such  a  child  ;  and  coveted  her  for  his 
own  son.  Not  that  he  begrudged  his  nephew 
the  prize,  now  that  he  knew  how  matters 
were.  He  wondered  a  little  when  Clere  had 


I. is 


done  his  courting,  and  then  remembered  that 
the  fellow  had,  unavoidably,  been  left  a  good 
bit  to  himself  during  his  visit.  Where  maids 
were  men  would  gravitate.  Clere  was  a  good 
fellow — real  English  oak — and  had  besides  a 
look  of  his  father  at  times  which  the  Colonel 
was  fain  to  confess  had  endeared  the  boy  to 
his  own  heart.  Yes ;  this  was  a  good  thing 
for  Clere. 

And  still,  while  acknowledging  the  good 
ness  of  it  loyally,  the  father  could  not  quite 
hold  back  regret.  If  only  Judy  could  have 
loved  his  own  lad  ! 

When  the  lovers  finally  appeared,  and  had 
been  nourished,  it  was  arranged  that  they, 
in  company  with  Cartwright,  should  return 
homeward,  camping  for  the  dark  hours  at  a 
jacal  by  the  wayside,  and  deploying  to  leave 
Judy  at  her  own  home.  The  Colonel  would 
ride  out  to  Fort  Twilight  to  look  after  his 
son,  and  let  his  movements  for  the  next  few 
days  be  determined  by  the  state  of  Tom's 
wound.  St.  John  could  explain  everything 
satisfactorily  at  Marsh  Mallow,  and  see  that 
Mrs.  Mejares  got  no  alarm. 

While  the  younger  men  saddled  up,  Judy 


was  left  alone  with  the  Colonel,  who  took 
both  her  hands  and  spoke  words  that  brought 
the  warm  blood  to  her  cheek  with  gratifica 
tion  and  pride.  Then  he  bent  his  stately 
white  head  and  kissed  her  forehead,  in  fath 
erly  fashion,  speaking  of  his  nephew  in  terms 
of  earnest  affection. 

"  You  were  quite  right  to  come,  my  lass," 
he  said,  cordially.  "  I  see  how  it  is.  Clere's 
a  fine  man — a  man  in  a  thousand,  as  was  his 
father  before  him.  He'll  make  a  true,  faith 
ful  husband,  one  to  lean  on  and  look  up  to, 
and  that's  as  much  as  any  woman  need 
wish." 

They  rode  home  very  quietly,  not  pressing 
the  horses,  and  Judy  found  to  her  great  con 
tentment  that  her  father  had  not  returned, 
and  that  Mrs.  Mitchel  and  the  baby  were  still 
in  possession.  She  had  many  questions  to 
answer,  but  patience  for  all — only  it  was  to 
black-eyed  Maria,  the  vaquero's  pretty  sweet 
heart,  that  the  fullest  information  was  given. 

The  Colonel  did  not  return  for  a  week,  ow 
ing  to  some  inflammation  in  Tom's  wound, 
which  made  it  advisable  to  keep  it  under  the 
surgeon's  eye  for  a  few  days.  His  son  re- 


170 


turned  with  him,  and  was  straightway  erect 
ed  into  a  hero  by  his  sister  Anne,  and  petted 
and  fussed  over  from  daylight  until  dark. 
The  young  sinner  had  the  grace  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself,  and,  although  he  ac 
knowledged  that  salutary  frame  of  mind  to 
no  one,  there  was  something  in  his  expression 
and  tone,  when  he  thanked  Mejares  for  the 
brotherly  promptness  with  which  he  had  come 
to  his  aid,  which  caused  that  subtle  delinea 
tor  of  character  to  affirm  afterwards  to  his 
wife  that  he  truly  believed  Tom  would  end 
by  being  a  credit  to  them  after  all. 

How  much  of  his  son's  wildness  Colonel 
Lawless  knew  or  suspected  he  confided  to  no 
one  ;  but  he  suddenly  made  the  discovery 
that  a  change  would  refresh  him,  ere  he 
should  settle  down  into  old  age  and  grand- 
fatherhood.  He  proposed  to  his  son  that 
they  should  go  abroad  together. 

"  I  want  a  taste  of  the  breeze  as  it  blows 
over  Dartmoor,"  he  said,  "  with  the  salt  of 
the  sea  and  the  bloom  of  the  heather  in  it. 
I  want  to  fish  once  again  in  Ilatherleigh  wa 
ter,  and  wander  about  the  fells,  and  track  the 
Taw  to  its  cradle  between  Cawsand  and  Yes- 


tor.  I  want  to  hold  heather  in  my  hand,  and 
hear  the  golden  plover  scream  overhead.  I'm 
homesick  for  England,  my  lad  I  Come  away 
with  me,  when  Anne  shall  be  through  her 
trouble,  and  let's  wander  together  amid  the 
old  sights,  in  the  old  places." 
And  so  it  was  decided. 


xvm 

DURING  the  interim  St.  John  had  a  talk 
with  his  uncle,  and  stated  the  condition  of  his 
affairs  in  very  plain  language,  ending  with  an 
exposition  of  his  plans  and  hopes  in  regard 
to  securing  a  position  as  ranch  manager. 

"  I'm  fit  for  this  sort  of  work,"  he  averred 
frankly,  "and  I'm  not  fit  for  much  else. 
Added  to  which  I'm  past  thirty  years  old, 
and  wish  to  get  married." 

The  Colonel  listened  kindly,  and  promised 
to  give  the  matter  his  best  attention.  For 
reasons  of  his  own  he  took  his  son  into  con 
fidence  and  consultation,  and  in  less  than 
a  week  informed  St.  John  that  he  thought 
they  had  found  something  that  might  suit 
him. 

An  English  eccentric,  named  Dudley,  own 
er  of  a  good  ranch  and  well  stocked,  with  the 
unrest  of  his  nation,  had  wearied  of  the  mo 
notony  of  ranch  life  in  Texas,  and  wished  to 


173 


betake  himself  to  Bolivia,  there  to  experiment 
in  minerals.  His  Texas  property  was  now  in 
the  market,  and  arrangements  might  be  made, 
the  Colonel  thought,  by  which  St.  John  could 
secure  it. 

The  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  the 
Colonel  and  his  nephew  started  for  their  com 
patriot's  ranch  the  next  day,  and  there  entered 
into  negotiations  which  resulted  in  the  turn 
ing  over  of  the  entire  outfit  to  St.  John,  the 
Colonel  advancing  the  purchase -money  and 
taking  a  lien  on  the  property. 

To  his  son-in-law,  later,  the  old  gentleman 
justified  his  kindness  to  St.  John  in  a  charac 
teristic  fashion. 

"  That  French  Yankee  over  yonder  will 
come  down  handsomely  for  his  daughter," 
he  averred.  "  You  just  watch  him.  I  couldn't 
let  my  brother  Tom's  lad  crow  small  before 
him,  hanged  if  I  could.  Not  while  love 
of  old  England  warms  my  heart,  and  recol 
lection  of  Yellow  Tavern,  and  the  Wilderness, 
and  Appomattox  rankles  in  my  memory.  No, 
sir !  I'll  see  him  on  this  deal,  whether  I  can 
go  him  one  better  or  not.' 

Lady   Wolcott  wrote  Judy  the    most   de- 


174 


licious  of  letters,  which  tickled  that  young 
lady's  vanity  immensely. 

"  Fancy  my  being  sister-in-law  to  a  *  lady 
ship,'  "  she  laughed,  gleefully  ;  "  it's  just  like 
a  novel." 

Whereupon  St.  John,  of  course,  assured  her 
that  she  was  n't  to  be  sister-in-law  to  a  queen. 

Ilis  sister's  epistle  to  him  he  tore  up,  and 
kept  its  contents  to  himself.  And  when,  a 
few  days  after  its  receipt,  Judy  gave  him  a 
piece  of  domestic  intelligence,  he  grinned 
exceedingly. 

"My  father  is  going  to  be  married  again," 
Judy  informed  him.  "  Isn't  it  droll,  after 
our  having  discussed  it  that  day  ?  He  in 
formed  me,  with  blushes,  last  night,  and  as 
sured  me  'twas  the  only  thing  that  reconciled 
him  to  losing  me.  She  is  a  very  nice  lady, 
he  says ;  tall  and  handsome,  and  not  disgust 
ingly  young  for  him,  or  a  widow.  She's  a 
native  Texan,  and  lives  in  Dallas.  He  met 
her  in  Rosalita,  where  she  was  visiting  friends, 
more  than  a  year  ago,  and  has  corresponded 
with  her  since,  and  been  to  her  home.  She's 
back  in  Rosalita  now,  and  I've  promised  to 
let  him  take  me  to  call,  and  entertain  her  here 


175 


afterwards.  Dear  old  father !  I  hope  he'll 
be  happy  and  well  taken  care  of.  This  makes 
me  comfortable  about  leaving  him." 

St.  John  displayed  the  requisite  interest, 
and  said  everything  that  was  congratulatory 
and  kind.  Going  home  afterwards,  he  slapped 
his  thigh  with  his  hand  resoundingly,  and 
chuckled  with  delight. 

"  Long  division,  by  Jupiter !"  he  grinned. 
"Just  as  I  dreamed!  Poor  Maudie !  But 
isn't  this  a  grand  sell — for  her !" 


THE  END 


VIN^OJITVO  JO  AilSHHAINQ 


93 


9TITOOM 


q-S 


